Page:Ethel Churchill Fragments III.pdf/41



Over that pallid face were wrought The characters of painful thought; But on that lip, and in that eye, Were patience, faith, and piety. The hope that is not of this earth, The peace that has in pain its birth; As if, in the tumult of this life, Its sorrow, vanity, and strife, Had been but as the lightning's shock, Shedding rich ore upon the rock: Though in the trial scorched and riven, The gold it wins, is gold from heaven.