Chapter XXXVIII

Blest are the trusting eyes that close in sleep
Or e’er the soilure of the world they see;
And blest art thou—I feel it while I weep—
Yea, well is thee and happy shalt thou be.

Blest is the guileless heart that never guessed
How faith is tainted and how love defiled,
But only knew them fresh from God and dressed
In whiteness in the fancy of a child.

Blest is the voice that never strove nor cried,
Nor swerved from truth, nor raged in vain desire;
Blest is the hour in which our darling died,
Saved from the evil, rescued from the fire.

Bow we the head; cease we the piteous knell;
God is the judge, and doeth all things well.