A Sonnet.

We gentler grow by sorrow; not the breast

That never crouches in the nights of tears,

That never bends beneath the loads of years,

Has sympathies that are the kindliest.

There is a strength in agony that best

Can link the careless heart with human fears,

And teach it that fond kindness which endears

The millions that with sadness are oppressed.

Grief softens while it saddens; pleasure smites

The timid soul with harshness, till it knows

Small earnest of the great world's grievous woes

And little of its struggles; sorrow plights

Her troth with sorrow, and in tears unites

Man unto man and hatred overthrows.