STANZAS.
Reading edition
Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep, In sorrow sad; The heart, in which a little love may creep, Is not all bad. The darkest hours that wear a wondrous gloom, Are somewhat light, If but one ray of brilliancy illume The brooding night. The field in which the weed and bramble thrive Has some of good, If but a single blossom struggling live Amid the rude. The ocean vast is not all desolate, The worlds between, If on its waters bearing human freight One sail is seen. All is not harsh and cold amid the wood, If warbled song Resound, how feebly, through the solitude Of tangled wrong. The desert, barren, bleak, a waste of sand Does never spread, If spear of grass in verdure green expand Above the dead. Then put not trust nor tenderness to sleep In sorrow sad; The heart in which a little love may creep Is not all bad.