Balming like summer and like sun
The sting of tears, the ache of sorrow,
The shy, cold hurts which sting and smart,
The frets and cares which underrun
The dull day and the dreaded morrow—
How when thou comest all turns fair,
Hard things seem possible to bear,
Dark things less dark, if thou art there.
Thou keepest a climate of thine own
’Mid earth’s wild weather and gray skies,