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 | Plays and poems |  |
392
[Dear is the fruit of sorrow, priceless store]
Dear is the fruit of sorrow, priceless storeComes from the hand of grief, as sages tell;
Seeking for comfort in the woes that swell
Our hearts to bursting; with fore-gathered lore
Lulling the fears that make a gloom before
Our onward tread. Ah, hollow fraud! As well
Speak truth, and say—“We healed mishaps that fell
By their own issue, as with running gore
A wound is healed.”—But, lo! the lasting scar!
We make the best of man's dark destiny
By self-deceit, while hopes and pleasures flee
Before our vision; till the latest star
Fades in the dawn of knowledge, and we see
Earth, like a joyless desert, stretch afar.
| Plays and poems | |