Perfect Character.

He lives but half who never stood         By the grave of one held dear,     And out of the deep, dark loneliness     Of a heart bereaved and comfortless,         From sorrow's crystal plentitude,         Feeling his loss severe,         Dropped a regretful tear.         Oh, life's divinest draught doth not         In the wells of joy abound!     For the purest streams are those that flow     Out of the depths of crushing woe,         As from the springs of love and thought         Hid in some narrow mound,         Making it holy ground.         He hath been blessed who sometimes knelt         Owning that God is just,     And in the stillness of cypress shade     Rosemary's tender symbol laid         Upon a cherished shrine, and felt         Strengthened in faith and trust         Over the precious dust.         So perfect character is wrought,         Rounded and beautified,     By the alchemy of that strange alloy,     The intermingling of grief and joy;         So nearer Heaven the spirit, brought         Bleeding, so sorely tried,         Finds its diviner side.