 | Poems |  |
240
[O life, O death, O world, O time]
O life, O death, O world, O time,
O grave, where all things flow,
'Tis yours to make our lot sublime
With your great weight of woe.
O grave, where all things flow,
'Tis yours to make our lot sublime
With your great weight of woe.
Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring,
Though bosoms torn may be,
Yet suffering is a holy thing;
Without it what were we?
Though bosoms torn may be,
Yet suffering is a holy thing;
Without it what were we?
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