XXVIII - My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white! / And yet they seem alive and quivering
'O DREARY life,' we cry, ' O dreary life ! '
And still the generations of the birds
Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds
Serenely live while we are keeping strife
With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a knife
Against which we may struggle ! Ocean girds
Unslackened the dry land, savannah-swards
Unweary sweep, hills watch unworn, and rife
Meek leaves drop year]y from the forest-trees
To show, above, the unwasted stars that pass
In their old glory: O thou God of old,
Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these !--
But so much patience as a blade of grass
Grows by, contented through the heat and cold.
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white! / And yet they seem alive and quivering
THANK God, bless God, all ye who suffer not / More grief than ye can weep for. That is well--
IF all the gentlest-hearted friends I know / Concentred in one heart their gentleness,
Beloved, my Beloved, when I think / That thou wast in the world a year ago,