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339.

S. M.

Anonymous.

The Meaning of Sorrow.
270

We love this outward world,

Its fair sky overhead,—

Its morning’s soft, gray mist unfurled,

Its sunsets rich and red.

But there’s a world within

That higher glory hath;

A life the immortal soul must win,—

The life of joy and faith.

For this the Father’s love

Doth shade the world of sense,

The bounding play of health remove,

And dim the sparkling glance;

That, though the earth grows dull

And earthly pleasures few,

The spirit gain its wisdom full

To suffer and to do.

Holy its world within,

Unknown to sound or sight,—

The world of victory o’er sin,

Of faith, and love, and light.

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