O SORROW! thou that cuttest down the plant
Of this world's promise close to the very root,
Give us, for lo thou canst! the thing we want, --
Courage, and power above death's mark to shoot.

Come, Sorrow! put thy sweet arms round my neck,
For none are left to do this, only thou;
And thou alone canst help this chain to break
Which binds and will not let me lift my brow!

Thou hast unveiled to me an hour to come,--
How near, how far, thou wouldst not have me know,--
An hour of dawn! but first these feet must roam,
And cross yon mountain-tops grown white with snow.