For them, the bitterness of death is past ;
For us, we know not how our lot is cast,
To live or die, or worse, to suffer pain,
That rends and tears the body and soul atwain,
Until death come, a kindly friend, at last.
And stirrings deeper yet — I have loved the earth.
Known sorrow that enriched the after-mirth;
The past was good, the future bright ; I burn
Still, still, to see the golden years return.
And plenty bear oblivion of our dearth.
But still, if hope, with each departing wing,
Should leave me starless, night-bound, sorrowing.
Yet fate, my master, bids me follow still.
Content, perchance : and if against my will,
I follow on, a bound and helpless thing.
Therefore I cling to hope : and yet my soul
Shall follow fate content whate'er the goal.
So free, though every lightsome hope be gone.
Can rest secure upon herself alone.
One small firm rock whatever surges roll.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem