solitude

Solitude


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;


Weep, and you weep alone;


For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,


But has trouble enough of its own.


Sing, and the hills will answer;


Sigh, it is lost on the air;


The echoes bound to a joyful sound,


But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;


Grieve, and they turn and go;


They want full measure of all your pleasure,


But they do not need your woe.


Be glad, and your friends are many;


Be sad, and you lose them all,

—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,


But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;


Fast, and the world goes by.


Succeed and give, and it helps you live

But no man can help you die.


There is room in the halls of pleasure


For a large and lordly train,


But one by one we must all file on


Through the narrow aisles of pain.

 
“Solitude” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Public Domain

Why We Need To Sleep

This morning I listened to Garrison Keiler on the Poetry Almanac Podcast, and was moved by this poem by William Blake.
Then I read Heidi Mordhorst’s blog and was reminded of our need to detoxify each night.
http://myjuicylittleuniverse.blogspot.com/

On Another’s Sorrow

Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear —

And not sit beside the next,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not year.

Oh He gives to us his joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled an gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

William Blake