Joy, and the triumph and the doom of gladness Make in my breast a music sweet as sadness; Shall I not sing for sorrow, and again Cry out, for the sheer joyousness of pain! For all life’s moods go murmuring like strings In a low chord, and all things sound all things, Through alternations of the grave and glad: Yet, in the end, all things are grave and sad. I feel all things, but cannot comprehend; And run, laughing and weeping, to the end Of the dear mystery, the fated race— |