COULD I hope that when the brain, <br />Tired of questions answerless, <br />Shall slip off the bonds of pain <br />That enslave it and possess, <br />I should know how little worth <br />Were the little things of earth. <br /> <br /> <br />'Does it matter,' could I say, <br />'Whether she were false or true? <br />Whether life was gold or grey? <br />Whether skies were grey or blue? <br />All this matters less, it seems, <br />Than the threads of broken dreams.' <br /> <br /> <br />We may long to rest from strife, <br />Cease to question or to grieve; <br />But the sharpest ills of life <br />Nothing will reverse, retrieve; <br />For when we at last have rest, <br />We shall know not we are blest. <br /> <br /> <br />While we know, we have the ache; <br />Consciousness with pain will cease. <br />Sleep's joy comes not while we wake-- <br />Night of life means dawn of peace, <br />But of peace which cannot be <br />Ever known by her or me. <br /> <br /> <br />Bow the back beneath the cross, <br />Stagger on a few steps more, <br />Bear the doubt, the strain, the loss, <br />As we had to do before! <br />When at last the burdens fall, <br />We shall know it not at all.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cul-de-sac-5/
