Duncan Campbell Scott (1862–1947)

IT is dark to the outward seeming,

Wherever its walls may rise,

Where the meadows are adreaming,

Under the open skies,

Where at ebb the great world lies,

Dim as a sea uncharted,

Round the house of sorrow,

The house of the broken-hearted.

It is dark in the midst of the city,

Where the world flows deep and strong,

Where the coldest thing is pity,

Where the heart wears out ere long,

Where the plough-share of wrath and of wrong

Trenches a ragged furrow,

Round the house of the broken-hearted,

The house of sorrow.

But while the world goes unheeding

The tenant that holds the lease,

Or fancies him grieving and pleading

For the thing which it calls peace,

There has come what shall never cease

Till there shall come no morrow

To the house of the broken-hearted,

The house of sorrow.

There is peace no pleasure can jeopard,

It is so sure and deep,

And there, in the guise of a shepherd,

God doth him keep;

He leads His belovèd sheep

To fold, when the day is departed,

In the house of sorrow,

The house of the broken-hearted.