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