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Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said— That his ill-savoured lamp shall shed A light to Heaven, when, blown about By the world’s vain and windy rout, The candles of delight burn out.

Then usher Sorrow to thy board, Give him such fare as may afford Thy single habitation—best To meet him half-way in his quest, The importunate and sad-eyed guest.

Yet somewhat should he give who took Thy hospitality, for look, His is no random vagrancy, Beneath his rags what hints there be Of a celestial livery.

Sweet Sorrow, play a grateful part, Break me the marble of my heart And of its fragments pave a street Where, to my bliss, myself may meet One hastening with piercèd feet.

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Within our garden walls you see A huge old-fashioned mulberry Whose purple fruit in summer falls Into the shade below the walls.

Its blackened trunk grows grim and hard From the harsh gravel of the yard, Its crest beholds the winds go by And scans the milky evening sky.

And like this tree my soul makes mirth, (Though rooted deep in blackened earth) For it shall grow till it hath sight (The walls o’er-topped) of endless light.