Classic Poem

We looked to Joy as furrows to the sun
In sowing time. Of that relentless heat
That spares the blade to blast the ripened wheat
How should we know, with summer but begun?
We followed Joy, nor knew how swiftly run
The untraceable and unreturning feet.
That quest I have no courage to repeat;
I am content; I ask no grace save one:
Lord, I will bear my own heart's utmost pain;
I will go softly, with bent, humbled head;
I will not strive, nor cry, nor pray again,
If Thou wilt hear in this my need extreme,
Wilt give me once, give me though in a dream,
To see the eyes I love be comforted.