  Ah! to be able to sing, To sorrow in melody; To string with silver Sorrow's dark harp! Or, mount every thorn Crowning life's brow With lustrous stars— Those tears of the sky. Rolling down its face When night's hand puts Darkness's crown on its head As twilight dies. None of these, for my soul; Only to weep is given to me, To nourish my heart's crop For the scythe of barrenness to reap. |
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