When Grief had passed some distance, I heard him singing;
And the words of his song were far away and dim
And in a sad strange language, like a ringing
Of bells beyond a hill, or like a hymn
A tired mother sings at dark. And I
Was glad that Grief had found a little song
At last, in place of the inarticulate, dry
And awful sobbing that held him dumb so long.
But oh, I wanted his words to come back clear
And tell me what it was he learned or planned;
I wished that the song had come while Grief was near,
And all in a tongue that I could understand.
For “Love” was the only word I heard him sing,
“Love” and (far, far!) “perfect through suffering.”