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GRIEF AND LOSS. 225
My God! how petulant I am,
How hard to please in grief, For ever making fresh complaint
Of what should be relief!
But, Lord ! Thou lovest we should speak,
Nor silent bear our pain : The look of Thy forbearing love
Allures us to complain.
Oh loss is grief's most joyless side,
Grief's least religious state : 'T is sorrow most unreconciled,
Because most like to fate.
Loss is a sense upon whose nerve Life's ceaseless weight must press,
A pain too dull and equable To vary its distress.
Loss is a thing so multiplied,
So many-shaped a grief, So echoing every sound of life,
That there is no relief.
I seemed to have him while I grieved;
At least grief was no void; In some strange way the vehement woe
My sinking spirits buoyed.
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