O’er all things round a full, strong, vivid light,
Too sorrowfully clear!—an under-tone
Was given to Nature’s harp, for me alone
Whispering of grief. Of grief?—be strong, awake!
Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul?
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake
Death’s fastnesses?—a magic to control
Worlds far removed?—from o’er the grave to thee
Love hath made answer; and thy tale should be
Sung like a lay of triumph! Now return