Explore "Song of the Waiting Dead" by George MacDonald on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
With us there is no gray fearing, / With us no aching for lack!
For the morn it is always nearing, / And the night is at our back.
At times a song will fall dumb, / A thought-bell burst in a sigh, / But no one says, "He will not come!"
She says, "He is almost nigh!"
The thing you call a sorrow / Is our delight on its way: / We know that the coming morrow / Comes on the wheels of to-day!
Our Past is a child asleep; / Delay is ripening the kiss; / The rising tear we will not weep / Until it flow for bliss.