Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823–1911)

LIGHT of dim mornings; shield from heat and cold;

Balm for all ailments; substitute for praise;

Comrade of those who plod in lonely ways

(Ways that grow lonelier as the years wax old);

Tonic for fears; check to the overbold;

Nurse, whose calm hand its strong restriction lays,

Kind but resistless, on our wayward days;

Mart, where high wisdom at vast price is sold;

Gardener, whose touch bids the rose-petals fall,

The thorns endure; surgeon, who human hearts

Searchest with probes, though the death touch be given;

Spell that knits friends, but yearning lovers parts;

Tyrant relentless o’er our blisses all;—

Oh, can it be, thine other name is Heaven?