Who has not wanted, does not guess br What plenty is.--Who has not groped br In depths of doubt and hopelessness, br Has never truly hoped.-- br Unless, sometimes, a shaow falls br Upon his mirth, and veils his sight, br And from the darkness drifts the light br Of love at intervals. br br And that most dear of everything, br I hold, is love; and who can sit br With lightest heart and laugh and sing, br Knows not the worth of it.-- br Unless, in some strange throng, perchance, br He feels how thrilling sweet it is, br One yearning look that answers his -- br The troth of glance and glance. br br Who knows not pain, knows not, alas! br What pleasure is.--Who knows not of br The bitter cup that will not pass, br Knows not the taste of love.