Weeping in the willow-glade,

Singing in the lily-reeds,

Sitting in the silent shade:

Sorrow in her lovely seed.

Like the velvet violet night

Holds the frozen stars, displayed,

And by winter bleak and white

Is the spring more welcome made-

So was Sorrow meant to be,

Woven in the Great Design.

Necessary teacher, She;

Season of the human mind.

But, through time, we’ve stripped away

That which made her dignified;

Passed her off into the fray,

Beaten, bound, and crucified.

Drenched in ashes, painted black,

Blood we pour upon her palms,

Heave our sins upon her back,

Ravaging the ancient psalms.

What a morbid wretch we’ve made,

Blood and tears and poetry.

See her lessons burn and fade,

Stifled by our company.

What has Sorrow come to be?

Wrestled from the Great Design-

Queen of death and darkness, She;

Illness of the human mind.