Mourners who weep! Albeit, as some have done,
Ye grope, tear-blinded, in a desert place,
And touch but tombs,—look up! Those tears will run,
Soon, in long rivers, down the lifted face,
And leave the vision clear, for stars and sun.
Miss Barrett.
O, turn, and be thou turned! The selfish tear,
In bitter thoughts of low-born care begun,
Let it flow on, but flow refined and clear,
The turbid waters brightening as they run.