by
We overstate the ills of life, and
take
Imagination (given us to bring down
The choirs of singing angels
overshone
By God’s clear glory) down our earth to rake
The dismal
snows instead, flake following flake,
To cover all the corn; we walk
upon
The shadow of hills across a level thrown,
And pant like climbers:
near the alder brake
We sigh so loud, the nightingale within
Refuses to
sing loud, as else she would.
O brothers, let us leave the shame and
sin
Of taking vainly, in a plaintive mood,
The holy name of GRIEF
!—holy herein
That by the grief of ONE came all our good.