And the hand forgotten that has carved it,
And the heart that dreamt it still and cold:
There may come some weary soul, o’erladen
With perplexed struggle in his brain,
Or, it may be, fretted with life’s turmoil,
Or made sore with some perpetual pain.
Then, I think, those stony hands will open,
And the gentle lilies overflow,
With the blessing and the loving token
That you hid there many years ago.