To
Time
.
YES
,
gentle
Time
,
thy
gradual
,
healing
hand
Hath
stolen
from
sorrow's
grasp
the
envenomed
dart
;
Submitting
to
thy
skill
,
my
passive
heart
Feels
that
no
grief
can
thy
soft
power
withstand
;
And
though
my
aching
breast
still
heaves
the
sigh
,
Though
oft
the
tear
swells
silent
in
mine
eye
;
Yet
the
keen
pang
,
the
agony
is
gone
;
Sorrow
and
I
shall
part
;
and
these
faint
throes
Are
but
the
remnant
of
severer
woes
:
As
when
the
furious
tempest
is
o'erblown
,
And
when
the
sky
has
wept
its
violence
,
The
opening
heavens
will
oft
let
fall
a
shower
,
The
poor
o'ercharged
boughs
still
drops
dispense
,
And
still
the
loaded
streams
in
torrents
pour
.