The warm, warm tears, that gush from feeling hearts—
Oh, they are holy!—And there is a bliss,
When the heart swells with anguish, and when grief
Chokes up the spirit in its agony—
Oh, there is something—and ’tis like the dew
Which evening sheds upon the summer flower,
And weighs it down, until it bows itself,
And pours the bright drops from its secret cell.
Oh, holy is the fountain of those tears,
And pure their gushing. ’Tis a holy thing