 | The March of Man and Other Poems |  |
171
TO ONE IN SORROW
Patience! Time's gently-pressing palm
Is on thy wound. Thou canst not feel
The virtue of the looks that calm,
The quiet of the hands that heal;
Yet some glad morning thou shalt rise
To taste again Joy's sweet surprise.
Is on thy wound. Thou canst not feel
The virtue of the looks that calm,
The quiet of the hands that heal;
Yet some glad morning thou shalt rise
To taste again Joy's sweet surprise.
So from the day that saw it fade
The plant takes heart. Thou canst not mark
The hueless bud, the wrinkled blade,
Forcing their prison cold and dark;
Yet in some fostering, sunny hour
Doth spring to life a newborn flower.
The plant takes heart. Thou canst not mark
The hueless bud, the wrinkled blade,
Forcing their prison cold and dark;
Yet in some fostering, sunny hour
Doth spring to life a newborn flower.
| The March of Man and Other Poems | |