10.08.2014, 13:12
THE HIDDEN JOY
THE wan November sun is westering;
The pale, gaunt year puts all her glory by ;
Beneath her pallid feet her vestures lie.
And white and faint she stands a-shivering :
And yet the world's great heart is quickening
Beneath dead leaves and grass grown sere and dry,
And through the silence of the sombre sky
Throb swift pulsations of a forefelt spring.
So all our sorrow hath a core of bliss ;
Some prophecy of pleasure tempers pain
In every heart, and through our bitterness
Strikes a fierce joy that not a pang is vain;
Life hath no hidden good that life shall miss,
For with all loss is mixed some god-like gain.
THE wan November sun is westering;
The pale, gaunt year puts all her glory by ;
Beneath her pallid feet her vestures lie.
And white and faint she stands a-shivering :
And yet the world's great heart is quickening
Beneath dead leaves and grass grown sere and dry,
And through the silence of the sombre sky
Throb swift pulsations of a forefelt spring.
So all our sorrow hath a core of bliss ;
Some prophecy of pleasure tempers pain
In every heart, and through our bitterness
Strikes a fierce joy that not a pang is vain;
Life hath no hidden good that life shall miss,
For with all loss is mixed some god-like gain.