Henry Septimus Sutton (1825–1901)

WHEN, though no loving accents fall

In snows upon thy parchèd brow,

Yet others unto others call

To give the kiss or breathe the vow;

Then let thy love for them beguile

The self-love that would in thee rise,

And bid a softly-welling smile

Warm once again thy frozen eyes.

When o’er thy brain the passion flows

And rolls into thine eyes its tears,

Because thy soul no solace knows

Of answering hopes and answering fears.

Then dash thy tears down as they swell,

And give thy grief a strong control,

And with a stern derision quell

The rising anguish of thy soul.

When thy lone dreams sweet visions see

And loving looks upon thee shine,

And loving lips speak joys to thee

That never, never may be thine;

Then press thy hand hard on thy side,

And force down all the swelling pain;

Trust me, the wound, however wide,

Shall close at last, and heal again.

Think not of what is from thee kept;

Think, rather, what thou hast received:

Thine eyes have smiled, if they have wept;

Thy heart has danced, if it has grieved.

Rich comforts yet shall be thine own;

Yea, God Himself shall wipe thine eyes;

And still His love alike is shown

In what He gives, and what denies.