THE flowers that, unrefreshed with rain or dew,
Pine 'neath the scorching summer's sun away,
Are but the emblems—purer still than they—
Of hearts that ne'er the blight of sorrow knew,
To contrast with their gladness—for the breast
That welcomes joy back to its shrine again,
After a weary interval of pain,
Enjoys the feeling with a warmer zest:
And when at length the dew-drop lingers o'er
The flowers that sickened with its long delay,
How sweetly do they own its former sway,
And bloom again more lovely than before.
Who would not, for a while then, cherish grief,
To taste the bliss, the rapture of relief?