Poem About Grief
Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,May still grow white and shine with happier hours.So the pure limped stream, when foul with stainsOf rushing torrents and descending rains,Works itself clear, and
Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,May still grow white and shine with happier hours.So the pure limped stream, when foul with stainsOf rushing torrents and descending rains,Works itself clear, and