Sonnet XIX
But since, in all that brief Life’s narrow scope,
No day pass’d by without some gentle deed,
Let us not ‘mourn like them that have no hope,’
Though sharp the stroke,—and suddenly decreed;
For still, when Spring puts out her tender leaves,
And Nature’s beauty seems to bud in vain,
(Since then the yearning spirit doubly grieves
With fresh remembrance of unconquer’d pain,)
Returns the precious memory of all
The grace and goodness of that creature fair,
Whom it pleased God in early days to call
From this dim world of trouble, toil, and care,—
And seldom is such bless’d conviction given
That She we mourn on Earth is now a Saint in Heaven!
