Lxv

The griefs of Nature, like her joys, Are placid and yet passionate; These, in her heart which knows no hate, She for the beautiful employs.... Behold how thoughts of happiness Rainbow the tears on sorrow’s face! Upon, the brow of joy no less Aureates the light of seriousness! Each to the other lending grace.

Oh, tenderness of grief that knows Some happiness still lies before! That for the rose that blooms no more Will bloom a no less perfect rose! Oh, pensiveness of joy that takes Sweet dignity from grief that died! Remembering that though morning shakes Her bright locks from blue eyes and wakes, Night sleeps on the same mountain side.