Compassion

Oh, let me not despise imperfect things...

COMPASSION


Oh, let me not despise imperfect things;
The feeble song that died upon the air,
The butterfly with torn and broken wings,
The dream unrealized, the leaden prayer
That fell unheard to earth, the flower too frail
To bear the burning sun, the twisted tree
That could not stand before the tearing gale--
All have a measure of divinity.


Thou who dost mark the sparrow's faltering flight
And seek the foolish lamb that went astray,
Help me find beauty in starless night,
A gleam of brightness in the lowering day.
Attune my ears to hear the rustling wings
That hover over all imperfect things.




The writer of this poem, Mary Pavey, was born in 1905. She taught elementary school, married a farmer, raised twelve children, and wrote poetry. Mary's unpublished work has been read and loved by her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren for over 60 years. We dearly love Mary’s vibrant and generous heart, and her spirit is fully alive in her poems. We hope that by sharing her poetry with the world, her kindness and warmth will touch those who need it.