I

Long, long the barren years; Long, long, O God, hast thou Appointed for our tears This term of exile. Lo,

Life is but nothing thus: Old friendships perishèd; Not hand in hand with us The dying father dead;

Narrow’d the mind that should Thro’ all experience range And grow; in solitude Unheard the wheels of change.

When sadly numbering The wasted golden hours Our fate hath put to wing, That had perchance been ours

To have seen, to have known, to have trod About from pole to girth This heritage of God, This wondrous sculptured earth,

Seeing that never again The usurer Time gives back, How should we not complain This Present, barren-black?

We said, ‘We must not mourn; The end is always good; Well past the pain well borne.’ But Sorrow in her mood

Would not be comforted, And cried, ‘I know the truth; Where are the distant dead, And where the wasted youth?

Let Wisdom take her ground And Hope do what she can; Ill heals the dreadful wound That severs half a man.’

Sorrow, not so beguiled, Would take my hand and lead, But waiting Wisdom smiled And took my hand instead,

And answered, ‘Well I rede The shackled win the goal; The body’s strengthener Need, And Sorrow of the soul.

But mine the part be given To guide and hers to follow, And so win thro’ to heaven.’ And Sorrow said, ‘I follow.’