Through strife the slumbering soul awakes, We learn on error's troubled route The truths we could not prize without The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

The sin and the shame and the sorrow, The crime and the want and the woe That are born there in your workshop, No hand can paint, you know.

I Love your lips when they're wet with wine and red with wicked desire.

Hide in your heart a bitter thought, Still it has power to blight; Think Love, although you speak it not It gives the world more light.

I was as pure as the morning When I first looked on your face; I knew I never could reach you In your high, exalted place.

I think I never passed so sad an hour, Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night. The edifice from basement to the tower Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.

There is room in the halls of pleasure for a large and lordly train, but one by one we must all file on through the narrow aisles of pain.