And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing—with a bated breath
And white, set face—a little strip of sea
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before.
THE SADDEST HOUR.
The saddest hour of anguish and of loss
Is not that season of supreme despair
When we can find no least light anywhere
To gild the dread, black shadow of the Cross;
Not in that luxury of sorrow when
We sup on salt of tears, and drink the gall
Of memories of days beyond recall—
Of lost delights that cannot come again.
But when, with eyes that are no longer wet,
We look out on the great, wide world of men,
And, smiling, lean toward a bright to-morrow,
Then backward shrink, with sudden keen regret,
To find that we are learning to forget:
Ah! then we face the saddest hour of sorrow.
