Beside the grave's new-rounded sod By some dear instinct close we come, Heart draws to heart, tho' we are dumb,
And dumbly seek to share the rod. We do not know what is to be, We cannot guess, we cannot see;
We can but stand and wait for God.
As when the winter tempests fall With blinding snow-wreaths on the steep,
And clouds and darkness dread appall, What can they do, th'unknowing sheep, But gather close and silence keep,
And listen for the Shepherd's call.
