  T THE night will round into the morn, The angry storm-wind cease to beat, The spent bird preen his wet tired wing, Grief ceaseth when the babe is born. There comes an end to hardest thing Some time,— Some time, some far time, late but sweet. I could not keep on with the fight; I could not face my want, my sin, The baffled hope, the urgent foe, The mighty wrong, the struggling right, Excepting that I surely know Some time— Some time, some dear time,—I shall win. I could not hold so sure, so fast, The truth which is to me so true, The truth which men deride and shun, Were I not sure it shall at last Be held as truth by every one Some time,— Some time all men shall own it too. Some time the morning bells shall chime, Some time be heard the victor-song, Some time the hard goal be attained, The puzzles shall be clear some time, The tears all shed, the gains all gained, Some time— Ah, dear time, tarry not too long! |
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