SORROW AND JOY

startled senses striking suddenly on our

seem, at the first approach, all but impossible 

of just distinction one from the other:

even as frost and heat at the first keen contact 

burn us alike

Joy and Sorrow, 

hurled from the height of heaven in meteor fashion, 

flash in an arc of shining menace o'er us. 

Those they touch are left 

stricken amid the fragments 

of their colourless, usual lives.

Imperturbable₃ mighty, 

ruinous and compelling, 

Sorrow and Joy 

--summoned or all unsought for--

processionally enter. 

Those they encounter 

they transfigure, investing them 

with strange gravity 

and a spirit of worship.

Joy is rich in fears:

Sorrow has its sweetness. 

Undistinguishable from each other 

they approach us from eternity, 

equally potent in their power and terror.

From every quarter 

mortals come hurrying:

part envious, part awe-struck, 

swarming, and peering into the portent;

where the mystery sent from above us 

is transmuting into the inevitable 

order of earthly human drama.

What then is Joy? What then is Sorrow? 

Time alone can decide between them, 

when the immediate poignant happening 

lengthens out to continuous wearisome suffering; 

when the laboured creeping moments of daylight 

slowly uncover the fullness of our disaster 

Sorrow's unmistakable features.

Then do most of our kind 

sated, if only by the monotony 

of unrelieved unhappiness, 

turn away from the drama, disillusioned, 

uncompassionate.

o ye mothers, and loved ones-then, ah, then 

comes your hour, the hour for true devotion. 

Then your hour comes, ye friends and brothers! 

Loyal hearts can change the face of Sorrow, 

softly encircle it with love's most gentle unearthly radiance.