If I could hold my grief in calm control,
And look its blinding terror in the face;
If I could welcome it to its own place
Deep in my heart; if I could sweep the whole
Of this fierce pain, that seems to drown my soul,
Into my being like a firm embrace,
And let it with my life's stream interlace, —
Then Grief and I, perchance, might win the Goal.
But if I shrink, with dim, averted eyes,
Craving to hurry through the restless days,
Seeking escape, — a wounded creature, blind, —
Then all my deeper self, that hidden lies,
In vain shall strive to lead me in the ways
That Grief would teach my lagging feet to find.