Poems (Coolidge)/Sympatica
SYMPATICA
There is no word in our cold tongue That seems to voice this gift so rare; I borrow that I may express A charm that oft can lighten care.
So much it holds in its embrace, Of kindly word and deed and thought; It is not tenderness alone, But gentleness with tact inwrought.
It is to love as though thine eye Another's inner life could see; To strengthen, though no word may ask The faltering one to lean on thee.
It is to feel because one knows The need that, constant, presses sore; To lose in other lives one's own, The precious spikenard thus to pour.
And none this gift so great may own Save he who sits at Jesus' feet; For, loving Him with all one's heart, Each life another's life may meet.