 | English Roses |  |
LACRYMÆ RERUM.
There is a touch of tears in mortal things,
A note that cannot die,
Which weds our failings as to angel wings
By a most tender tie,
And draws us nearer to the awful springs
Which at God's footstool lie.
A note that cannot die,
Which weds our failings as to angel wings
By a most tender tie,
And draws us nearer to the awful springs
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It travails in the mystery of morn,
And murmurs through the leaves;
It is the point of every precious thorn,
Which love with passion weaves;
It wavers out of harvest beauty, born
Among the golden sheaves.
And murmurs through the leaves;
It is the point of every precious thorn,
Which love with passion weaves;
It wavers out of harvest beauty, born
Among the golden sheaves.
The accent of the rolling world is pain,
And from joy's own excess;
In hearts all broken from the blissful strain
Of some Divine caress,
Which passing into darkness rise again
To the old utterness.
And from joy's own excess;
In hearts all broken from the blissful strain
Of some Divine caress,
Which passing into darkness rise again
To the old utterness.
Creation has one leaven and that is grief,
Though taught in divers tones;
From the great cry of an august belief,
To sobs for loosened zones;
But everywhere the sorrow is relief,
And earth's foundation stones.
Though taught in divers tones;
From the great cry of an august belief,
To sobs for loosened zones;
But everywhere the sorrow is relief,
And earth's foundation stones.
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