AND do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain More than the Father's heart rich good invent? Each time we smell the autumn's dying scent, We know the primrose time will come again; Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain. Be bounteous in thy faith, for not mis-spent Is confidence unto the Father lent: Thy need is sown and rooted for his rain. His thoughts are as thine own; nor are his ways Other than thine, but by pure opulence Of beauty infinite and love immense. Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise, A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays; Nor other than thy need, thy recompense.