Weltschmertz

You ask why I am sad to-day,     I have no cares, no griefs, you say?     Ah, yes, 't is true, I have no grief--     But--is there not the falling leaf?     The bare tree there is mourning left     With all of autumn's gray bereft;     It is not what has happened me,     Think of the bare, dismantled tree.     The birds go South along the sky,     I hear their lingering, long good-bye.     Who goes reluctant from my breast?     And yet--the lone and wind-swept nest.     The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by,     Why does a tear come to my eye?     Is it the March rain blowing wild?     I have no dead, I know no child.     I am no widow by the bier     Of him I held supremely dear.     I have not seen the choicest one     Sink down as sinks the westering sun.     Faith unto faith have I beheld,     For me, few solemn notes have swelled;     Love bekoned me out to the dawn,     And happily I followed on.     And yet my heart goes out to them     Whose sorrow is their diadem;     The falling leaf, the crying bird,     The voice to be, all lost, unheard--     Not mine, not mine, and yet too much     The thrilling power of human touch,     While all the world looks on and scorns     I wear another's crown of thorns.     Count me a priest who understands     The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands;     Count me a comrade of the thief     Hot driven into late belief.     Oh, mother's tear, oh, father's sigh,     Oh, mourning sweetheart's last good-bye,     I yet have known no mourning save     Beside some brother's brother's grave.