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GRIEF AND LOSS.
My sorrow could defend itself, Or at least could live apart;
But the loss intrudes from every side On my defenceless heart.
The present is so like the past,
Yet so terribly unlike, That all life's touches do not touch,
But cut and bruise and strike.
If it was more unbearable
So stormily to grieve, The hopelessness of my great loss
Is harder to believe: —
Worse to believe, — and yet, alas!
Worse to be borne as well, Because it makes life felt to be
So quite impossible.
Is it, O Lord ! that I too much On creatures' love have leaned?
Else why this void of all things now, This pain of being weaned ?
Sorrow by its own nature is In league with self-deceit;
Its very grace improves its skill More grace to counterfeit. |
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