Her smile illumes the darkness of my place,
All grief from my poor heart she will efface.”
Now Love is mine—she walks with me for aye
Down paths of primrose and blue violet,
But on my heart at every close of day
A grief more keen than my old grief is set.
I weep for those who have not found Love yet.
There is a fine altruism about this sentiment that one cannot but respect; yet I should hate to live with a person who felt that way. One would not venture on any little kindness for fear of opening a new floodgate of tears.
I should feel like urging another point of view. It is true that you are happy, happier than you deserve. But don’t get morbid about it; take it cheerfully. It’s not your fault. It seems selfish, you say, to enjoy your blessings when there aren’t enough to go round among all your fellow beings. Why, my dear fellow, that’s the only way to make them go around. What if, theoretically, it is a little selfish? We will readily pardon that for the sake of the satisfaction we get out of seeing you have a good time. We much prefer that you should allow us to sympathize with you in your happiness, rather than that you should inflict upon us too much sympathy for our deprivations.
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