Classic Poem

This sorrow sometimes brings—
That round about our path small fair white flowers
All undiscerned in gladness' hours
We now perceive; or forth some new bud springs.

And larger flowers the searching hand may glean—
Blossoms of love we saw not heretofore
Or, seeing so close at hand, glanced at no more;
These now yield fragrance unforeseen.

So, wife, thy love for me reveals,
Now that I walk beneath the shadow of night,
Now that unlooked-for grief appeals,
Undreamed-of depth and height.