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Poem	Who has not wanted, does not guess What plenty is.--Who has not groped In depths of doubt and hopelessness, Has never truly hoped.-- Unless, sometimes, a shaow falls Upon his mirth, and veils his sight, And from the darkness drifts the light Of love at intervals. And that most dear of everything, I hold, is love; and who can sit With lightest heart and laugh and sing, Knows not the worth of it.-- Unless, in some strange throng, perchance, He feels how thrilling sweet it is, One yearning look that answers his -- The troth of glance and glance. Who knows not pain, knows not, alas! What pleasure is.--Who knows not of The bitter cup that will not pass, Knows not the taste of love. O souls that thirst, and hearts that fast, And natures faint with famishing, God lift and lead and safely bring You to your own at last!
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