Sorrow’s Importunity

When Sorrow first came wailing to my door, April rehearsed the madrigal of May; And, as I ne'er had seen her face before, I kept on singing, and she went her way. When next came Sorrow, life was winged with scent Of glistening laurel and full-blossoming bay: I asked, but understood not, what she meant, Offered her flowers, and she went her way. When yet a third time Sorrow came, we met In the ripe silence of an Autumn day: I gave her fruit I had gathered, and she ate, Then seemed to go unwillingly away. When last came Sorrow, around barn and byre Wind-carven snow, the Year's white sepulchre, lay. ``Come in,'' I said, ``and warm you by the fire.'' And there she sits, and never goes away.