Sonnet: 3

O, there are tears of joy, and they are fed
From the heart's secret fountain, where they well
Like springs in some mysterious cavern's bed,
Made holy by the sibly's murmuring spell.

Forth from the darkling cave they calmly flow,
Crystalline pure, to heaven's rejoicing light,
And over sifted sands and pebbles bright,
Down through the sacred grove of laurels go.

So when my thoughts, long wearied by the rush
Of life's too busy cares, would pause and keep
Awhile a sabbath's stillness, and would lay
Each passionate longing, then I can but weep
Tears, happy tears, in many a sudden gush,
And with them all my sorrows melt away.
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