Page:The Garden of Years.djvu/48



Love, to all men that loathe their lives to-day

I fain would give of those rapt years a part;

Of all the words I dreamt I heard you say,

I could spare some to cheer the hapless way

Of every mortal who is sick at heart.

Of hope and honor all the cruel mart

I fain would have one rose relieve the gloom,

Appeasing the unutterable smart

With one sweet breath of that self-same perfume

That turned my own December into May.

And yet—and yet—let the great world go past!

God holds within the hollow of His hand

Each scourged pariah, down-trodden, and outclassed,

Who pauses at the steep abyss, aghast;—

His will we cannot hope to understand.

Only of all good things that He hath planned,

And all that in the future He may send,

There is no further boon that I demand,

Since I have this—that half I comprehend—

That I have held you to my heart at last!