Moisten the offering, He who knows our frame 

 And well remembereth that we are but dust, 

 Is full of pity. 

 It was said of old 

 Time conquer'd Grief. But unto me it seems 

 That Grief overmastereth Time. It shows how wide 

 The chasm between us, and our smitten joys 

 And saps the strength wherewith at first we went 

 Into life's battle. We perchance, have dream'd 

 That the sweet smile the sunbeam of our home 

 The prattle of the babe the Spoiler seiz'd, 

 Had but gone from us for a little while,— 

 And listen'd in our fallacy of hope 

 At hush of eve for the returning step 

 That wake the inmost pulses of the heart 

 To extasy,—till iron-handed Grief 

 Press'd down the nevermore into our soul, 

 Deadening us with its weight. 

 The man of Uz 

 As the slow lapse of days and nights reveal'd 

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