And sympathy’s soft touch and anger’s stings.
How dare we say the breezes all are blown,
The chords have no reserved sweet in store;
Or claim that all is tested and made known,—
That nightingales may trill, or skylarks soar,
But neither can surprise us any more?
The world we call so old, God names his new;
The thought we christen stale shall outlast men,
While moons shall haunt the sky, and stars gleam through,
While roses blossom on their thorny stem,