How do men make their words endure
Beyond the night that has no cure,
And so avail them strong and sure
Against the dark to-morrow?
Ask of the poet: he knows best,
Remembering how his hand was pressed
Against the softness of your breast
O lovely lovely Sorrow!

How do we make a garden sweet?
The paths are soft beneath the feet
But ecstasy is incomplete
Still waiting for to-morrow —
The linden tree let slip her seed,
In every bush the birds agreed
But I perceived my secret need —
I had no pretty Sorrow!

How do we sanctify this place
And fill the naked air with grace
And carve To-day's imperfect face
Upon the stone To-morrow?
To keep divinities divine
There must be acid in the wine
And so, to make this place a shrine
Give room to tender Sorrow!

Let Reason, like the night-owl, pass
And cast his feather on the grass:
I'll find it there, and raise my glass
And honor him — to-morrow.
To-night is Beauty to be sought —
She is a woman, to be taught;
To me, and me alone, she brought
The perfect gift of Sorrow.
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