What misery supplies is often met

Not by cure, and much less by solution,

But it's by injury our pains get wet –

With tearful demand, comes absolution.

Like a stroll on the beach I see them come;

One care pushing the incoming beneath,

By the weak undertow, the strong grow numb,

And bathe the tides in shallow points of grief.

Yet the heart returns to a hunger bold,

And old woes sometimes new wail decries

Not letting new grief luxury in old

The way hope often better-sense denies.