Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep,
In sorrow sad;
The heart, in which a little love may creep,
Is not all bad.
The darkest hours that wear a wondrous gloom,
Are somewhat light,
If but one ray of brilliancy illume
The brooding night.
The field in which the weed and bramble thrive
Has some of good,
If but a single blossom struggling live
Amid the rude.
The ocean vast is not all desolate,
The worlds between,
If on its waters bearing human freight
One sail is seen.
All is not harsh and cold amid the wood,
If warbled song
Resound, how feebly, through the solitude
Of tangled wrong.
The desert, barren, bleak, a waste of sand
Does never spread,
If spear of grass in verdure green expand
Above the dead.
Then put not trust nor tenderness to sleep
In sorrow sad;
The heart in which a little love may creep
Is not all bad.