THERE is but one great sorrow, All over the wide, wide world; But that in turn must come to all -- The Shadow that moves behind the pall, A flag that never is furled. Till he in his marching crosses The threshold of the door, Usurps a place in the inner room, Where he broods in the awful hush and gloom, Till he goes, and comes no more -- Save this there is no sorrow, Whatever we think we feel; But when Death comes all's over: 'T is a blow that we never recover, A wound that never will heal. |