CCCXLII FOR THE DESOLATE

When thy lone dreams sweet visions see,

And loving looks upon thee shine,

And loving lips speak joys to thee

That never, never may be thine;

Then press thy hand hard on thy side,

And force down all the swelling pain;

Trust me, the wound, however wide,

Shall close at last, and heal again.

Think not of what is from thee kept;

Think, rather, what thou hast received:

Thine eyes have smiled, if they have wept;

Thy heart has danced, if it has grieved.

Rich comforts yet shall be thine own;

Yea, GOD Himself shall wipe thine eyes;

And still His love alike is shown

In what He gives, and what denies.