I praise Thee while my days go on;
I love Thee while my days go on!
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank thee while my days go on!
And, having in thy life-depth thrown
Being and suffering (which are one),
As a child drops some pebble small
Down some deep well, and hears it fall
Smiling--so I! THY DAYS GO ON!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
BLESSED ARE THEY.
To us across the ages borne,
Comes the deep word the Master said:
"Blessed are they that mourn;
They shall be comforted!"
Strange mystery! It is better then
To weep and yearn and vainly call,
Till peace is won from pain,
Than not to grieve at all!
Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet,
Life does not thrill to joy alone.
The harp is incomplete
That has no deeper tone.
Unclouded sunshine overmuch
Falls vainly on the barren plain;
But fruitful is the touch
Of sunshine after rain!
Who only scans the heavens by day
Their story but half reads, and mars;
Let him learn how to say,
"The night is full of stars!"
We seek to know Thee more and more,
Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest,
Since sorrow is the door
Whereby Thou enterest.
Nor can our hearts so closely come
To Thine in any other place,
As where, with anguish dumb,
We faint in Thine embrace.
ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.
LINES
TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.
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