James Berry Bensel (1856–1886)

IT were an idle thing, good friends, to say

No after grief be yours! The rose may blow

In beauty, but the thorn as well must grow;

And though a brilliant sun brings in the day,

Lo, a small cloud,—a hair-breadth’s size, we ’ll say—

May spread until it hides the splendid glow.

Then let me pray these for you as you go:

Sweet Patience, calm Content, and all the way

You travel, white robed Peace: then at your side,

When Grief shall come she will come silently

And powerless to harm. Ay: you will take

Her hand submissively, and bid her bide

At will within your walls. So you may be

Happy and glad with Grief for Love’s dear sake.