If there should come a hand
Drawing this tired head to a place of rest
On a most loving breast;
And as one felt that one could almost bear
To tell the whole long sickening trivial tale
Of how one came so utterly to fail
Of all one once knew that one might attain—
If one should feel consoling arms about,
Shutting one in, shutting the black past out—
Should feel the tears that washed one clean again,