WHAT shall I do when you pass by
And gaze at me so quietly,
What shall I give of all my store,
To help you to your joy once more!
Some jewelled gift, some treasured thing,
I had not meant for offering;
Shall I not bid you take the whole
Of what I prize, to heal your soul!
For I have seen the lonely track,
The cruel chasm, bitter black,
The stony roads no pastures meet,
Which you have pressed with bleeding feet.
And heard afar the dire refrain,
That beat upon your heart and brain,
The thunders through your darkness hurled,
Big with the griefs of all the world.
For I have known the tears and strife
Which wasted all your pride of life,
The precious hoard God meant should last,
Till your perfècted years were past.
And pictured the relentless days,
Through which the sunlight never strays,
Stretching before you like a sea,
Ever more dark and drearily.
What shall I give, what shall I say,
To help you on your lonely way,
A kindly hand, a smile or so,
A gentler glance--for all I know?
Maybe a tender word or two,
At most a prayer, or tear for you,
And strength to tell you help is vain,
Dead joys do never rise again.