With the soul’s loved ones be a mournful thing,
When we go forth in buoyancy of heart,
And bearing all the glories of our spring
For life to breathe on,—is it less to meet,
When these are faded?—who shall call it sweet?
Even though love’s mingling tears may haply bring
Balm as they fall, too well their heavy showers
Teach us how much is lost of all that once was ours!
XXIV.
Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow,