by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for. That is well -
That is light grieving! lighter, none befell
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.
Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in his cot,
The mother singing, at her marriage bell
The bride weeps, and before the oracle
Of high-famed hills the poet has forgot
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,
Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,
Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place
And touch but tombs, - look up! those tears will run
Soon in long rivers down the lifted face,
And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.