 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
INDIVIDUAL GRIEFS.
My heart hath personal sorrows to none known,Frail, selfish, fleeting, which I would not share
With thee, my reader. Others, too, there are,
Of higher nature, and on which is thrown,
As on clouds past the eternal sun light-blown,
A glory, from what we alike all share,
And gleams of truth, which make them rich and rare,
Even from that humanity we own
In common! these are they which round the sun
Of Life, with cloudlike splendors, and with trails
Of glory, gather when its course is run.
Yet still th' eternal light, which gilds them, fails
Not even then—but, hallowing them, and none
But such as they, still o'er all clouds prevails!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |