The tempest fades within the weary breast,
And sorrow’s tide begins to ebb away;
Though winter holds the spirit in its rest,
The frozen bough shall bloom in bright array.
Think not the heart is broken past repair,
Nor that the pulse of passion beats in vain;
‘Tis but a slumber deep in heavy air,
Before the soul awakens from its pain.
For love shall come on soft and silent wing,
When least thou lookest for its golden gleam;
A sudden joy that makes the silence sing,
And wakes thee gently from a mournful dream.
So trust the morrow and the turning tide,
Let go the ghost of what was lost before;
The gates of hope are standing open wide,
And life awaits beside the open door.
Just as nature demands the cycle of seasons, the human heart demands the cycle of healing. This verse serves as a gentle reminder that the end of one affection is merely the prelude to a deeper, more profound connection waiting in the wings of time.
