Ah! dear hearts, heavy with this nobler woe,
This pain divine, which even saints may know,
There is this thought to balm and still your pain:
“God gives to us that we may give again.”
“I am unworthy!” do you, trembling, say?
Strive to be worthier, then, and day by day
Heap corn and wine, and stand with open door,—
A granary of heaven to feed the poor.
Put of your sweet into each bitterer cup;
Halve every loaf, that some one else may sup,—