But never comes there any full replying,
Except when, o’er the tumult and the pain,
Above the upraised, questioning, tear-stained faces,
We catch at times a half heard, answering strain,
An antiphone from the high, heavenly places.
“If only, Lord,” the happy voices sing,
“If only—we have Thee, who faileth never,
Nor life, nor death, nor any other thing
Can hurt our joy forever and forever.
“If men could know how quickly pain is spent,