Poem by George MacDonald

To S. F. S.

  They say that lonely sorrows do not chance:
  More gently, I think, sorrows together go;
  A new one joins the funeral gliding slow
  With less of jar than when it breaks the dance.
  Grief swages grief, and joy doth joy enhance;
  Nature is generous to her children so.
  And were they quick to spy the flowers that blow,
  As quick to feel the sharp-edged stones that lance
  The foot that must walk naked in life's way,--
  Blest by the roadside lily, free from fear,
  Oftener than hurt by dash of flinty spear,
  They would walk upright, bold, and earnest-gay;
  And when the soft night closed the weary day,
  Would sleep like those that far-off music hear.

1. To Garibaldi, with a Book
2. A Memorial of Africa
3. The Gospel Women. 8. The Widow with the Two Mites
4. The Gospel Women. 2. The Woman that lifted up her Voice
5. I See Thee Not

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