Of Sorrow’s Patient

She seems to weep alone,
Though utter not a sound,
The sound of patient sorrow sulks
In sullen decorum. They often laugh
As mad men will at boorish humor,
Like cows raging among the quaintly
Painted pastures. But utter not a sound
The patient spirit—she weeps as crystal,
It shines or rings in silence, tenuous the air.
Yes, finely crafted melancholy is like a wine
Refined and duly chosen, for the patient
Of sorrow.