Go, little sorrows! From the evening wood
Faint odors rise, that touch the heart like tears
With inarticulate comfort. Lo, she bears
A weary load--small cares that drug the blood,
Small envies, sick desires for lesser good,--
All day, till now the evening re-appears,
They drop away, and she with wonder rears
Her aching height from needless servitude.
The tree-tops are all music; light and soft
The brook’s small feet go tinkling toward the sea
Bearing the little day’s distress afar;
While yonder, in the stillness set aloft,
My one great Grief, still glimmering down on me,
Smiles tremulous as a bereavèd Star.
_Yale Review_ _Charlotte Wilson_