Sonnet Cviii:

Yes, everywhere some precious flower of God Blooms in the lowest valley of our care. There is no squalid hut, no prison lair Nigh which it shines not from the mouldy sod: Or when sleep makes the aching forehead nod, It blows in dreams; and we, awakening, bear, For the sweet vision of a thing so fair; The cruellest wounds of the chastising rod. Else life were hell. We soothe our present grief With hopes that, like the fireflies, disappear Ere we can whisper, 'Lo! the light is here!' But over all there bends, for our relief. This heavenly flower: O call it 'Love,' in brief; It bears no name, unless that name be clear.