With us there is no gray fearing, <br />With us no aching for lack! <br />For the morn it is always nearing, <br />And the night is at our back. <br />At times a song will fall dumb, <br />A thought-bell burst in a sigh, <br />But no one says, 'He will not come!' <br />She says, 'He is almost nigh!' <br /> <br />The thing you call a sorrow <br />Is our delight on its way: <br />We know that the coming morrow <br />Comes on the wheels of to-day! <br />Our Past is a child asleep; <br />Delay is ripening the kiss; <br />The rising tear we will not weep <br />Until it flow for bliss.<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-of-the-waiting-dead/
