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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP by ROBERT BROWNING SONNET: TO FANNY by JOHN KEATS AS THE GREEK'S SIGNAL FLAME by WALT WHITMAN THE BIRDS: THE HOOPOE'S CALL TO HIS WIFE PROCNE, THE NIGHTINGALE by ARISTOPHANES NIGHTINGALE AND CUCKOO by ALFRED AUSTIN FATHERHOOD by HENRY CHARLES BEECHING VISTAS OF LABOR: 4. FACTORY CHILDREN by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |