THY sadness is a leaden shroud, a rock

Of Sisyphus, which thou must upward roll

By night and day, on, on. Its downward rush

Is no relief, no help, since it but seems

Heavier at each fresh start. And still thy strength

Is waning, and thy heart aches with the tears—

The unshed tears that lie like stones upon it,

While those that flowed are rivers in thy path—

Unfathomable, fordless, dark and deep.

These thou must wade, with all thy burdens—wade

And sink with every step as 'twere thy last,

And feel such deadly weakness seize on thee

As though some raging fever laid thee low.

Thy sadness is a Nessus robe, that clings

In burning folds about thee, sears thy flesh,

And eats into thy bones. 'Tis like a weapon

A man turns on himself, whose wound nought heals,

Since it is dealt against his inmost soul.

If, then, through clouds of sadness, thou perceivest

The world, well mayst thou say of it: 'Tis hell!

For spring itself is dark, the birds' sweet carol

Cheerless and dull, thy life a very desert,

Where human faces pass like spectral visions,

And gladness is a thing so clean forgotten,

As if it ne'er had been—its very name

Become a soundless word, a ghostly whisper!