Nor all of solemn is my thought of her. Though changed and glorified, must there not be Place still for mirth and innocent gayety And pure young hearts? Or do we gravely err, And is their happiness too deep for joy? It cannot be. The natural heart's employ Pours praise as pure as any worshipper Lost in his rite, too raptured to be gay. Yes, and such service in its flight outstrips The cries of suffering hearts that wail and bleed, The groans of grief, crushed from some bitter need. This is the faith I bear; and look indeed To hear her laugh again and feel her lips Kiss from my brow the heavy thoughts away. |