GRIEF

I sit beneath the weeping tree, alone

With Grief, my hated friend, who makes me cry

For life no more, commanding that I rage and moan

At cruel Fate, who willed my love to die.

Much hated Grief that tears my soul to shreds

In shards of pain, like glass that pierces deep

The unwitting foot that on it lightly treads,

So tears like blood in silent torrents weep.

But friendly Grief that brings him still to mind

His face still seen, though now not lined with pain,

White head not bowed and eyes no longer blind

In joyous youth he strides to me again.

Fresh Grief from Love’s encircling womb is torn

While Joy gestates till Time bids it be born.

Anonymous