You Leave No Room to Mourn
WHEN weary of the clatter of the street,
Tired of the toiling millions at my side,
The bick’rings, the dishonor ; when sore tried
By dead’ning city walls, a vision sweet
Will sometimes come of blowing trees that greet
Still meadows ; and a deeply moving tide
Meeting a primrose sky. Peace doth abide
All day, a bulwark strong against defeat.
And so, when all my soul is sick of life,
Sick of the trammels of this world forlorn,
Heartsick of always failing in the strife,
The glory of your face is sometimes borne
Unto my spirit. Then, though grief be rife,
It passes, Love. You leave no room to mourn!
Tired of the toiling millions at my side,
The bick’rings, the dishonor ; when sore tried
By dead’ning city walls, a vision sweet
Will sometimes come of blowing trees that greet
Still meadows ; and a deeply moving tide
Meeting a primrose sky. Peace doth abide
All day, a bulwark strong against defeat.
And so, when all my soul is sick of life,
Sick of the trammels of this world forlorn,
Heartsick of always failing in the strife,
The glory of your face is sometimes borne
Unto my spirit. Then, though grief be rife,
It passes, Love. You leave no room to mourn!
Hildegarde Hawthorne