O FATE, betwixt the grinding-stones of Pain, Tho' you have crushed my life like broken grain, Lo! I will leaven it with my tears and knead The bread of Hope to comfort and to feed The myriad hearts for whom no harvests blow Save bitter herbs of woe. Tho' in the flame of sorrow you have thrust My flowering soul and trod it into dust, Behold, it doth reblossom like a grove To shelter under quickening boughs of Love The myriad souls for whom no gardens bloom Save bitter buds of doom. |