  He lives but half who never stood By the grave of one held dear, And out of the deep, dark loneliness Of a heart bereaved and comfortless, From sorrow's crystal plentitude, Feeling his loss severe, Dropped a regretful tear. Oh, life's divinest draught doth not In the wells of joy abound! For the purest streams are those that flow Out of the depths of crushing woe, As from the springs of love and thought Hid in some narrow mound, Making it holy ground. He hath been blessed who sometimes knelt Owning that God is just, And in the stillness of cypress shade Rosemary's tender symbol laid Upon a cherished shrine, and felt Strengthened in faith and trust Over the precious dust. Rounded and beautified, By the alchemy of that strange alloy, The intermingling of grief and joy; So nearer Heaven the spirit, brought Bleeding, so sorely tried, Finds its diviner side. |
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