Grey, desolate and blind,
About the world the rain hath set her woe.
She mourns, and will not go —
In grief made sister to the wordless wind.

Heed not, O heart! but say:
'A little, and she slumbers on her tow'rs.
Her tears arc of to-day,
And save for them we shall not see the flow'rs.'

The narrow path of joy
Ends not in joy. Thro' night we pass to morn.
O day of darkness born!
O sun not all our doubting can destroy!

Love, tho by dusk I hark
No clarion from the parapets of Fate,
Beyond the voiceless dark
I know the morning and thy lips await.