Wipe out that grief, my soul,
And shall I lose all love, in losing this?
Unclasp my spirit, self's close stolid stole.
Are there no lives to bless?
So will I give my love, my life, no stinted dole.

God will note deeds and sighs,
Throned in far splendor on the heavenly hill,
Though mad sounds from this wretched planet rise--
Moans wild enough to fill
Heaven's air, and drown its harps in doleful cries.

And angels shall look down,
Through incense rising from my godly deeds.
Approving gleam those eyes of tender brown;
Sure on a brow that bleeds,
The thorns should change to a more glorious crown.

Well done, my soul, well done,
Out of thy grief to rear a ladder tall
To reach the land that lies beyond the sun,
To scale the jasper wall,
And rise to glory on grief's stepping stone.

God looks into the tide,
Angel and demon troubled, of a man's mind;
And if my alms are scattered far and wide,
Only my love to find,
Only to pave a path to reach her side--