I wonder if when years have piled— Some thousands—on the causeOf early hurt, if such a lapse Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still Through centuries above,Enlightened to a larger pain By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told; The reason deeper lies,—Death is but one and comes but once, And only nails the eyes.
There’s grief of want, and grief of cold,— A sort they call “despair”;There’s banishment from native eyes, In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind Correctly, yet to meA piercing comfort it affords In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross, Of those that stand alone,Still fascinated to presume That some are like my own.
[62]
