The Bereaved

We grudged not those that were dearer than all we possessed, Lovers, brothers, sons. Our hearts were full, and out of a full heart We gave our belovèd ones. Because we loved, we gave. In the hardest hour When at last--so much unsaid In the eyes--they went, simply, with tender smile, Our hearts to the end they read. They to their deeds! To things that their soul hated, And yet to splendours won From smoking hell by the spirit that moved in them: But we to endure alone. Their hearts rested on ours; their homing thoughts Met ours in the still of the night. We ached with the ache of the long waiting, and throbbed With the throbs of the surging fight. O had we failed them, then were we desolate now And separated indeed. What should have comforted, what should have helped us then In the time of our bitter need! But now, though sorrow be ever fresh, sorrow Is tender as love; it knows That of love it was born, and Love with the shining eyes The hard way chose. And out of deeps eternal, night and day, A strength our sorrow frees, Flooding us, full as the tide up the rivers flows From the depth of the silent seas; A strength that is mightier far than we, yet a strength Whereof our spirit is breath, Hope of the world, that is strange to hazard and fear, To the wounds of Time, and Death.