A Sorrow, wet with early tears
Yet bitter, had been long with me;
I wearied of this weight of years,
And would be free.

I tore my Sorrow from my heart,
I cast it far away in scorn;
Right joyful that we two could part—
Yet most forlorn.

I sought, (to take my Sorrow’s place,)
Over the world for flower or gem—
But she had had an ancient grace
Unknown to them.

I took once more with strange delight
My slighted Sorrow; proudly now,
I wear it, set with stars of light,
Upon my brow.