Why, in the very midst of sorrow
    Cannot steal joy, and so make brief
The dread with which we face tomorrow?
    A honeyed narcotic to temper grief!
I do not think it strange to ask
Of joy, that it take up this task;
    For so many times when I was glad,
    Blithe and merry, have I had
But a bright moment of feeling free,
When sorrow, for no reason, stole upon me!