Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

THANK God, bless God, all ye who suffer not

More grief than ye can weep for. That is well—

That is light grieving! lighter, none befell

Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.

Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,

The mother singing,—at her marriage-bell

The bride weeps,—and before the oracle

Of high-faned hills, the poet has forgot

Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,

Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,

Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place

And touch but tombs,—look up! those tears will run

Soon in long rivers down the lifted face,

And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.