Love Sonnet

The poor dumb creatures of the field, that call
So sadly to their young; whose narrow mind,
Consciously helpless, looks up to mankind
Through piteous pleading eyes; that live in thrall,
Or, stricken in the shambles, groaning fall -
Thinking of these, how little grace they find,
And then of thee who never wast unkind,
And of our love, I could weep for them all,
This is the gift of Love, that we, so blest,
Should feel for the afflicted; that we twain
Should be united against wrong and pain,
The slaughtered lamb, the wild bird's rifled nest,
And, most of all, the fraud and force that stain
Homes of the human poor and the oppressed.