When All The World Has Gone Awry, And I Myself Least Favour Find With My Own Self, And But To Die And Leave The Whole Sad Coil Behind, Seems But The One And Only Way; Should I But Hear Some Water Falling Through Woodland Veils In Early May, And Small Bird Unto Small Bird Calling - O Then My Heart Is Glad As They. Lifted My Load Of Cares, And Fled My Ghosts Of Weakness And Despair, And, Unafraid, I Raise My Head And Life To Do Its Utmost Dare; Then If In Its Accustomed Place One Flower I Should Chance Find Blowing, With Lovely Resurrected Face From Autumn'S Rust And Winter'S Snowing - I Laugh To Think Of My Disgrace. A Simple Brook, A Simple Flower, A Simple Wood In Green Array, - What, Nature, Thy Mysterious Power To Bind And Heal Our Mortal Clay? What Mystic Surgery Is Thine, Whose Eyes Of Us Seem All Unheeding, That Even So Sad A Heart As Mine Laughs At The Wounds That Late Were Bleeding? - Yea! Sadder Hearts, O Power Divine. I Think We Are Not Otherwise Than All The Children Of Thy Knee; For So Each Furred And Winged One Flies, Wounded, To Lay Its Heart On Thee; And, Strangely Nearer To Thy Breast, Knows, And Yet Knows Not, Of Thy Healing, Asking But There Awhile To Rest, With Wisdom Beyond Our Revealing - Knows And Yet Knows Not, And Is Blest.