GRIEVE not for me, dear friend, when men shall curse me And women revile me in their unkinder way; Nor think my woes and poverty accurse me, For I am monarch of both night and day; Nor wail my wounds in battle, they will heal At the warm touch of sunlight -- their hurt shall go When the rain runs on my roof and the winds blow And the red leaves dance in a reel; Nor even for my passing have thou tears, Unless I go, like a coward, full of fears. But grieve if in my heart wonder should ever cease At waters tumbling earthward in glad release With hunger for the sea; and likewise give me pity Should I unlatch one door with laggard hands When Beauty calls me from the loveless city To the sweet vagrance of the lonely lands; And greet me with thy tears should I grow cold To chivalry, or should one gesture of mine lose its grace In the royal presence of the poor or old, Or should I turn to truth an unwelcome face, If tears were no more possible to mine eyes, Or daybreak brought no wonder of surprise; And wear thou sable for me evermore Should I hold life or song a careless reed, Or should the waters of my love recede And leave old comrades like a forsaken shore. Sweet wounds there are and triumphs that bring woe: Grieve not for me, I have chosen the harder way; Nor would I retrace one step and elsewhere go, Nor my more noble yearnings disobey. Upon my roof the slowly-tapping rain Is anodyne sufficient for my pain. Grieve not for me: I cannot be undone, With the strong wind my friend and the quiet sun. |