More on Sadness
Your cause of sorrow
Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then
It hath no end.
Joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of sorrow.
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour's joy wrecked with a week of teen.
If sorrow can admit society,
Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Dear Lord, though I be changed to senseless clay.
And serve the potter as he turns his wheel,
I thank thee for the precious gift of tears!
Truly it is allowed us to weep: by weeping we disperse our wrath; and tears go through the heart, even like a stream.
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