Weak are words, too well I know that,
When the heart is sick with grief;
Only in oblivion’s slumber
Is there found a respite brief.
Words which friendship fain would offer,
Words to soothe, to cheer, to
heal,
Only stab the heart but deeper,
Only sympathy reveal.
Comfort! No, there is no comfort
On the earth, dear one, for thee;
Thicker, thicker grow the shadows,
From which thy sickening heart
would flee.
There’s discord in the sweetest sounds;
The flowers have no perfume;
The sunshine stealing in the room
But mocks thy heart’s deep gloom.
[677][678]
A withering blight is over all.
Alone! alone you stand,
And ceaselessly mourn, and sigh and yearn
To clasp that “vanished hand”—
The hand that made life sweet for thee
So many trusting years.
’Twas held between thee and all harm,
Safe refuge from thy fears.
Ah! how you miss the tender love,
The kind and thoughtful care,
So needed to a woman’s life—
That makes her skies so fair!
When love is gone, what is there left
To which the heart can cling?
Each weary day, and dreary night,
But desolation bring.
Bereaved! bereaved! oh, stricken one!
Can none thy sorrow share?
No, no, you turn from all away,
To lose yourself in prayer.
In thy deep grief but One alone
Can troubled waters calm,
Yet on thy heart let friendship lay
Its soothing hand of balm.
