Sorrow

Woe to him that has not known the woe of man, Who has not felt within him burning all the want Of desolated bosoms, since the world began; Felt, as his own, the burden of the fears that daunt; Who has not eaten failure's bitter bread, and been Among those ghosts of hope that haunt the day, unseen. Only when we are hurt with all the hurt untold,-- In us the thirst, the hunger, and ours the helpless hands, The palsied effort vain, the darkness and the cold,-- Then, only then, the Spirit knows and understands, And finds in every sigh breathed out beneath the sun The human heart that makes us infinitely one.