Ah! to be able to sing,
To sorrow in melody;
To string with silver
Sorrow's dark harp!

Or, mount every thorn
Crowning life's brow
With lustrous stars--
Those tears of the sky.

Rolling down its face
When night's hand puts
Darkness's crown on its head
As twilight dies.

None of these, for my soul;
Only to weep is given to me,
To nourish my heart's crop
For the scythe of barrenness to reap.