Poem

But drinkest thou of grief, alone,
O windows of my soul?
For then I'd fan thy fire out--
With weeping heart, condole.
Thou of our share of jewel tears
Dost hand out much too free,
And level to a piteous heap
All that is ours to keep.

And speakest but of darkling time,
O doors to feeble breath?
For then I'd lock thy lips and leave
Thy wailing noise unsaid.
Thou speakest only vanity,
Remaining e'er unheard--
No audience have thee to applaud
Thy waiting dreary ode.

Desert me to mine bleak abyss,
There sorrow flee, forget.
'Tis better to be there alone
Than speaketh but regret.