John Walsh

A strange life - strangely passed!         We may not read the soul         When God has folded up the scroll             In death at last.     We may not - dare not say of one     Whose task of life as well was done     As he could do it, - "This is lost,     And prayers may never pay the cost."     Who listens to the song         That sings within the breast,         Should ever hear the good expressed             Above the wrong.     And he who leans an eager ear     To catch the discord, he will hear     The echoes of his own weak heart     Beat out the most discordant part.     Whose tender heart could build         Affection's bower above         A heart where baby nests of love             Were ever filled, -     With upward growth may reach and twine     About the children, grown divine,     That once were his a time so brief     His very joy was more than grief.     O Sorrow - "Peace, be still!"         God reads the riddle right;         And we who grope in constant night             But serve His will;     And when sometime the doubt is gone,     And darkness blossoms into dawn, -     "God keeps the good," we then will say:     " 'Tis but the dross He throws away."