The Mourner
When tears, when heavy tears of sharpest sorrow
Bathe the lone pillow of the mourner’s bed,
Whose grief breaks fresh with every breaking morrow
For his beloved one dead,
If all be not in vain, his passionate prayer
Shall like a vapour mount the inviolate blue,
To fall transfigured back on his despair
In drops of Heavenly dew;
Nor fail him ever but a cloud unceasing
Of incense from his soul’s hushed altar start,
And still return to rise with rich increasing,
A well-spring from his heart;
Pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing
Through other lives shall still run radiant on,
Till they, too, reap in joy who wept in sowing,
Long after he is gone.