In Darkness

I will be still;
The terror drawing nigh
Shall startle from my lips no coward cry;
Nay, though the night my deadliest dread fulfill,
I will be still.

For, oh! I know,
Though suffering hours delay,
Yet to Eternity they pass away,
Carrying something onward as they flow,
Outlasting woe!

Yes, something won;
The harvest of our tears,—
Something unfading, plucked from fading years;
Something to blossom on beyond the sun,
From Sorrow won.

The agony
So hopeless now of balm
Shall sleep at last, in light as pure and calm
As that wherewith the stars look down on thee,
Gethsemane.

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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