“I feel the unutterable longing,
The hunger of the breast is mine;
I reach and grasp for hands in darkness,
My ear grows sharp for voice or sign.
“O friend, no proof beyond this yearning,
This outstretch of our hands we need;
God will not mock this hope He giveth,
No love He prompts shall vainly plead.
“Then let us stretch our hands in darkness,
And call our loved ones o’er and o’er’;
Some day their arms shall close about us,
And the old voices speak once more.”
Every life has its secret, that which accounts for its trend, its choices, its toils, its achievements. When we see a mother with her sick child, forgetting herself, losing her rest, bending day and nigh over the bed where the little life is flickering, we know the secret of her devoted watching. It is love that is at the heart of it all.
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