  Are sorrows hard to bear,—the ruin Of flowers, the rotting of red fruit, A love’s decease, a life’s undoing, And summer slain, and song-birds mute, And skies of snow and bitter air? These things, you deem, are hard to bear. But ah, the burden, the delight Of dreadful joys! Noon opening wide, Golden and great; the gulfs of night, Fair deaths, and rent veils cast aside, Strong soul to strong soul rendered up, And silence filling like a cup. |
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