For every loss there comes a gain;
And spring, which never failed us yet,
Out of the snow-drift and the ice
Shall some day bring the violet.”
We bore—what could we do but bear?—
To see youth perish in its prime,
And hope grow faint, and joyance grieved,
And dreams all vanish in thin air,
And beauty, at the touch of time,
Become a memory, half believed;