336 
J. R. LOWELL. 
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Every thing is happy now, 
Every thing is upward striving ; 
’Tis as easy now for the heart to be true, 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,— 
’Tis the natural way of living : 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes the season’s youth, 
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep ’neath a silence pure and smooth, 
Like burnt-ont craters healed with snow. 
