“It is not reason which makes faith hard, but life.” — Jean Ingelow

And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.

And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.

How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.

Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.