I take my heart with trembling hands,
Unworthy vassal though it be,
Sad wanderer in many lands,
Such as it is I offer thee,
And will not even dare complain
Shouldst thou this sorry gift disdain.
Yet oh! be sure that every sigh,
Each beat of anguish deep and sore,
Has grown a dagger thrust, which I
Must bear for all that's gone before;
And bearing it will learn to know
The cleansing agony of woe.
And this remember, ere you turn
Your head away in silent pride,
The soul is young that still can learn
New truths that Love has simplified;
And being young may still attain
Perfection, through repentant pain.
Then stoop to pity; do not close
The gate of Paradise and rest,
To one whose spirit seeks repose
Within that haven of the blest;
But rather fling the portal wide
And draw the pilgrim safe inside.