Good in Ill

A seven-fold glory spans across
     The darkest cloud that looms above us;
The shadow of our deepest-loss
     Is lit by angel eyes that love us
The sunshine is a blessed gift,
     The rain and tempest are as blessed;
Hands that in agony we lift
     By hands invisible are caressed.

A smile is pleasure’s sunny sign,
     But tears at last are all as sunny,
The bees from many a noxious vine
     And poison plant suck sweetest honey.
Accept alike the sun and shade,
     The happy chances and the sorrow,
For know, our darkest nights are made
     The canvass of the brightest morrow.

The seas that suck your navies down,
     And strew with wreck their barren breakers,
Weave dewy morning’s jeweled crown,
     And feed all life beneath the Maker’s.
Old Earthquake ploughed the granite globe,
     And howling Tempest drove the harrow,
That now may greening Sumer’s robe
     In bloom and verdure veil the furrow.

Our wing-drooped griefs, on everything, brood
     The fledglings of some genial laughter;
No ill scapes the reign of Good
     In life, or death, or life’s hereafter.
By pangs our laggard souls that goad
     Are nobler, stronger pulses given,
And God who gives a thorny road
     Has made its goal His glorious Heaven.