Edith Nesbit - Cul-De-SacEdith Nesbit - Cul-De-Sac
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COULD I hope that when the brain,
Tired of questions answerless,
Shall slip off the bonds of pain
That enslave it and possess,
I should know how little worth
Were the little things of earth.
`Does it matter,` could I say,
`Whether she were false or true?
Whether life was gold or grey?
Whether skies were grey or blue?
All this matters less, it seems,
Than the threads of broken dreams.`
We may long to rest from strife,
Cease to question or to grieve;
But the sharpest ills of life
Nothing will reverse, retrieve;
For when we at last have rest,
We shall know not we are blest.
While we know, we have the ache;
Consciousness with pain will cease.
Sleep`s joy comes not while we wake--
Night of life means dawn of peace,
But of peace which cannot be
Ever known by her or me.
Bow the back beneath the cross,
Stagger on a few steps more,
Bear the doubt, the strain, the loss,
As we had to do before!
When at last the burdens fall,
We shall know it not at all.
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