A strange life--strangely passed! <br />We may not read the soul <br />When God has folded up the scroll <br />In death at last. <br />We may not--dare not say of one <br />Whose task of life as well was done <br />As he could do it,--'This is lost, <br />And prayers may never pay the cost.' <br /> <br />Who listens to the song <br />That sings within the breast, <br />Should ever hear the good expressed <br />Above the wrong. <br />And he who leans an eager ear <br />To catch the discord, he will hear <br />The echoes of his own weak heart <br />Beat out the most discordant part. <br /> <br />Whose tender heart could build <br />Affection's bower above <br />A heart where baby nests of love <br />Were ever filled,-- <br />With upward growth may reach and twine <br />About the children, grown divine, <br />That once were his a time so brief <br />His very joy was more than grief. <br /> <br />O Sorrow--'Peace, be still!' <br />God reads the riddle right; <br />And we who grope in constant night <br />But serve His will; <br />And when sometime the doubt is gone, <br />And darkness blossoms into dawn,-- <br />'God keeps the good,' we then will say: <br />' 'Tis but the dross He throws away.'<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/john-walsh-7/
