<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416667" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>John Walsh</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A strange life--strangely passed!<br>We may not read the soul<br>When God has folded up the scroll<br>In death at last.<br>We may not--dare not say of one<br>Whose task of life as well was done<br>As he could do it,--'This is lost,<br>And prayers may never pay the cost.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who listens to the song<br>That sings within the breast,<br>Should ever hear the good expressed<br>Above the wrong.<br>And he who leans an eager ear<br>To catch the discord, he will hear<br>The echoes of his own weak heart<br>Beat out the most discordant part.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whose tender heart could build<br>Affection's bower above<br>A heart where baby nests of love<br>Were ever filled,--<br>With upward growth may reach and twine<br>About the children, grown divine,<br>That once were his a time so brief<br>His very joy was more than grief.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Sorrow--'Peace, be still!'<br>God reads the riddle right;<br>And we who grope in constant night<br>But serve His will;<br>And when sometime the doubt is gone,<br>And darkness blossoms into dawn,--<br>'God keeps the good,' we then will say:<br>' 'Tis but the dross He throws away.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Whitcomb+Riley">James Whitcomb Riley</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416667" data-title="John Walsh de James Whitcomb Riley" data-description="A strange life--strangely passed! We may not read the soul When God has folded up the scroll In death at last. We may not--dare not say of one Whose task of life as well was done As he could do it,--'This is lost, And prayers may never pay the cos..."></div> </div> </div>

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