Great Dignity Ever Attends Great Grief, And Silently Walks Beside It; And I Always Know When I See Such Woe That Invisible Helpers Guide It. And I Know Deep Sorrow Is Like A Tide, It Cannot Ever Be Flowing; The High-Water Mark In The Night And The Dark - Then Dawn, And The Outward Going. But The People Who Pull At My Heart-Strings Hard Are The Ones Whom Destiny Hurries Through Commonplace Ways To The End Of Their Days, And Pesters With Paltry Worries. The Peddlers Who Trudge With A Budget Of Wares To The Door That Is Slammed Unkindly; The Vendor Who Stands With His Shop In His Hands Where The Hastening Hosts Pass Blindly; The Woman Who Holds In Her Poor Flat Purse The Price Of Her Rent-Room Only, While Her Starved Eye Feeds On The Comfort She Needs To Brighten The Lot That Is Lonely; The Man In The Desert Of Endless Work, Unsoftened By Islands Of Leisure; And The Children Who Toil In The Dust And The Soil, While Their Little Hearts Cry For Pleasure; The People Who Labour, And Scrimp, And Save, At The Call Of Some Thankless Duty, And Carefully Hide, With A Mien Of Pride, Their Ravening Hunger For Beauty; These Ask No Pity, And Seek No Aid, But The Thought Of Them Somehow Is Haunting; And I Wish I Might Fling At Their Feet Everything That I Know In Their Hearts They Are Wanting.