Poem by Ludvig Bødtcher (1793-1874)

On a loss

What here we love is but a loan that’s brief,

Its time uncertain, Nature’s order’s so,

If you’d be spared all sorrow and all grief,

Then you may nothing love while here below;

But sorrow is an angel’s hidden hand

Which purges what on earth we hold most dear,

And lifts our spirit to another land –

And therefore you shall love – while you are here.