Why weepest thou, O dear one?
Do sorrows press?
Beneath the weight of sorrow
Is love's caress.
Why joyest thou, O dear one?
Is love thine own?
Ah! 'neath love's deep rejoicing
Is sorrow's moan.
Indeed, all earth's great passions—
Is it not so?—
Are circled in the shadow
Of joy or woe.
But why should we bemoan this?
Could otherwise
Truth's dazzling light be subject
To mortal eyes?
Could otherwise we enter
The endless light,
Beyond the shadowed circle
Of mortal sight?