  “Every soul has a climate of its own, or rather is a climate.”—Henri Amiel. O HEART beloved, O kindest heart! Balming like summer and like sun The sting of tears, the ache of sorrow, The shy, cold hurts which sting and smart, The frets and cares which underrun The dull day and the dreaded morrow— How when thou comest all turns fair, Hard things seem possible to bear, Dark things less dark, if thou art there. Thou keepest a climate of thine own ’Mid earth’s wild weather and gray skies, A soft, still air for human healing, A genial, all-embracing zone Where frosts smite not nor winds arise; And past the tempest-storm of feeling Each grieved and weak and weary thing, Each bird with numbed and frozen wing, May sink to rest and learn to sing. Like some cathedral stone begirt, Which keeps through change of cold and heat Still temperature and equal weather, Thy sweetness stands, untouched, unhurt By any mortal storms that beat, Calm, helpful, undisturbed forever. Dear heart, to which we all repair To bask in sunshine and sweet air, God bless thee ever, everywhere. |
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