“A cold, hard man I said,” as day by day
I saw him pass the door, or, brooding, sit
Before his cottage, watching children play
The summer’s lingering twilight hours away—
Ever uncouth and grim, with brows close knit.
Until, one day, a wondrous change took place;
Upon the door the sign of mourning, and
His child lay dead! But, by what heavenly grace
Did all the hardened lines fade from his face,
Leaving of former self no slightest trace,
As with sweet Grief he journeyed, hand in hand?