I.

They say that lonely sorrows do not chance. I think it true, and that the cause I know: A sorrow glideth in a funeral show Easier than if it broke into a dance. But I think too, that joy doth joy enhance As often as an added grief brings low; And if keen-eyed to see the flowers that grow, As keen of nerve to feel the thorns that lance The foot that must walk naked in one way— Blest by the lily, white from toils and fears, Oftener than wounded by the thistle-spears, We should walk upright, bold, and earnest-gay. I'll tell you how it fared with me one day After noon in a world, so-called, of tears.