Poetry Archives

It comes not in such wise as she had deemed,
  Else might she still have clung to her despair.
More tender, grateful than she could have dreamed,
  Fond hands passed pitying over brows and hair,
  And gentle words borne softly through the air,
Calming her weary sense and wildered mind,
By welcome, dear communion with her kind.

Ah! she forswore all words as empty lies;
  What speech could help, encourage, or repair?
Yet when she meets these grave, indulgent eyes,
  Fulfilled with pity, simplest words are fair,
  Caressing, meaningless, that do not dare
To compensate or mend, but merely soothe
With hopeful visions after bitter Truth.

One who through conquered trouble had grown wise,
  To read the grief unspoken, unexpressed,
 The misery of the blank and heavy eyes,—
  Or through youth’s infinite compassion guessed
  The heavy burden,—such a one brought rest,
And bade her lay aside her doubts and fears,
While the hard pain dissolved in blessed tears.