Earth

SAD is my lot; among the shining spheres Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night, And ever, in my never-ending flight, Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears. Young wives’ and new-born infants’ hapless biers Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight; Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light; Pain and remorse and want fill up my years. My happier children’s farther-piercing eyes Into the blessed solvent future climb, And knit the threads of joy and hope and warning; But I, the ancient mother, am not wise, And, shut within the blind obscure of time, Roll on from morn to night, and on from night to morning.