Unwearied, and with springing steps elate, I had conveyed my wealth along the road. The empty sack proved now a heavier load: I was borne down beneath its worthless weight. I stumbled on, and knocked at Death's dark gate. There was no answer. Stung by sorrow's goad I forced my way into that grim abode, And laughed, and flung Life's empty sack to Fate.

The spark divine dwells in thee: let it grow.

That each sorrow has its purpose, By the sorrowing oft unguessed, But as sure as the sun brings morning, Whatever is-is best.

And however dark the skies may appear, And however souls may blunder, I tell you it all will work out clear, For good lies over and under.

So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind while just the art of being kind is all the sad world needs.

And he who has dwelt with his heart alone, Hears all the music in friendship's tone. So better and better I comprehend How sorrow ever would be our friend.

Keep out of the past. It is haunted.