Of eternal sorrow down our face;
And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming
That no future could their touch efface.
All will then be faded:—night will borrow
Stars of light to crown our perfect rest;
And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow
Just remain to show us all was best,
Then melt into a divine to-morrow:—
O how poor a day to be so blest!
—Adelaide Procter.