| Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916. | | | XXI. Interlude
Epochs
vii. Compensation | | By Emma Lazarus (1849–1887) |
| | | ’TIS not alone that black and yawning void | |
| That makes her heart ache with this hungry pain, | |
| But the glad sense of life hath been destroyed, | |
| The lost delight may never come again. | |
| Yet myriad serious blessings with grave grace | 5 |
| Arise on every side to fill their place…. | |
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| The nameless charm about all things hath died, | |
| Subtle as aureole round a shadow’s head, | |
| Cast on the dewy grass at morning-tide; | |
| Yet though the glory and the joy be fled, | 10 |
| ’Tis much her own endurance to have weighed, | |
| And wrestled with God’s angels, unafraid. | | | | |
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