Poetry Archives

O time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay
  Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence,
  (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
Stealest the long-forgotten pang away;
  On Thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,
  I may look back on many a sorrow past,
And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile—
  As some poor bird, at day’s departing hour,
  Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, tho’ its wings are wet the while:—
  Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
  Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!