Xxxix

It seemed to me--Grief had grown old, Soon would come its last countin’, And tears--so many had been shed That dry must be their fountain.

Then suddenly I thought of Thee, And soon my whole soul shivered, And as though I should lose Thee soon An echo in it quivered.

And mine eyes promptly filled with tears, My joy to grief is bending, And I am finding out with pain That tears shall have no ending.