With Us There Is No Gray Fearing, With Us No Aching For Lack! For The Morn It Is Always Nearing, And The Night Is At Our Back. At Times A Song Will Fall Dumb, A Thought-Bell Burst In A Sigh, But No One Says, "He Will Not Come!" She Says, "He Is Almost Nigh!" The Thing You Call A Sorrow Is Our Delight On Its Way: We Know That The Coming Morrow Comes On The Wheels Of To-Day! Our Past Is A Child Asleep; Delay Is Ripening The Kiss; The Rising Tear We Will Not Weep Until It Flow For Bliss.