This page needs to be proofread.
48 POEMS.
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 me A 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.
�� �
