The hope that is high as the heavens,
The joy that is keen as pain,
The faith that is free as the morning,
Can die—but can live not again.
And though I should step beside you,
And hand should reach unto hand,
We should walk mutely—stifled—
Ghosts in a breathless land.
And what if I should be kind?
And though you should be true?
The old love could never, never
Love on as it used to do.
THORNS.
As we pass by the roses,
Into your finger-tip
Bruise you the thorn.
Quick at the prick you start,
Crying, "Alas, the smart!
Farewell, my pleasant friend,
Wisely our way we wend
Out of the reach of roses."
Oh, we pass by the roses!
Where does the red drop drip?
Where is the thorn?
What though 'tis hid and pressed
Piercing into my breast?
Scathless, I stretch my hand;
Strong as their roots I stand,
And dare to trust the roses.