XXXVIII.
Till then I’ll patient be. It is not best
To bosom sorrow, or to nourish grief;
No! let me bear my heavy laden breast
Where only suff’ring hearts can find relief—
To Him who was of sufferers the chief!
He numbers every hair upon my head,
He clothes the flower, he notes the falling leaf;
And will he, now my dearest ones are dead,
Leave me in sorrow’s night my burning tears to shed?