The passion of despair is quelled at last; The cruel sense of undeserved wrong, The wild self-pity, these are also past; She knows not what may come, but she is strong; She feels she hath not aught to lose nor gain, Her patience is the essence of all pain. As one who sits beside a lapsing stream, She sees the flow of changeless day by day, Too sick and tired to think, too sad to dream, Nor cares how soon the waters slip away, Nor where they lead; at the wise God's decree, She will depart or bide indifferently. There is a deeper pathos in the mild And settled sorrow of the quiet eyes, Than in the tumults of the anguish wild, That made her curse all things beneath the skies; No question, no reproaches, no complaint, Hers is the holy calm of some meek saint. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE UNDERWORLD by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE LIVING STARS by GEORGE SANTAYANA RIDE NOT TOO FAST WITH BEAUTY by ELSIE TWINING ABBOTT THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL by HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN WILD GEESE by GEORGE LAWRENCE ANDREWS LILIES: 13. 'LET US NEVER COMFORT EACH OTHER INTO SLEEP' by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |