I cautious, scanned my little life --

I winnowed what would fade

From what would last till Heads like mine

Should be a-dreaming laid.

I put the latter in a Barn --

The former, blew away.

I went one winter morning

And lo - my priceless Hay

Was not upon the Scaffold --

Was not upon the Beam --

And from a thriving Farmer --

A Cynic, I became.

Whether a Thief did it --

Whether it was the wind --

Whether Deitys guiltless --

My business is, to find!

So I begin to ransack!

How is it Hearts, with Thee?

Art thou within the little Barn

Love provided Thee?