Wednesday, 10 June 2020

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. 

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