After the Storm

There is a pathetic beauty in it all;   O’erhead the murky, sullen rain-clouds pass,   The sun’s first darting rays have pierced the mass, Just now so grim, so gray. Again the call Is heard of storm-hushed robins. Maples tall,   To show the regal silver of their class,   Rustle their thirst-slaked leaves and on the grass, Drenched into higher color, some last drops fall.

‘Tis like that heart, whose happiness excelled   All others, which, with its gay threshold crossed   At last by sorrow’s gloom, has fitly learned To stifle throes of pain, has ne’er rebelled   In angry bitterness, has merely turned   Gayness to pathos, with no beauty lost.