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CALLS ON THE HEART.
VIII.
The house is waste to-day,—
The leaf has dropt from the spray,
The thorn, prickt through to the song:
If summer doeth no wrong,
The winter will, they say.
Sing, Heart! what heart replies?
In vain we were calm and wise,
If the tears unkissed stand on in our eyes.
Heart, wilt thou go?
—"Ah, no!
Grieved hearts must break even so."
IX.
Howbeit all is not lost:
The warm noon ends in frost,
And worldly tongues of promise,
Like sheep-bells, die off from us
On the desert hills cloud-crossed!
Yet, through the silence, shall
Pierce the death-angel's call,
And "Come up hither," recover all.
Heart, wilt thou go?
—"I go!
Broken hearts triumph so."
