[from Collected Works, T.E.Brown]

SAD! SAD!

O, SAD when grass is green,
O, sad when blue-bells blow,
Sad, sad ‘mid lily sheen,
Laburnurn’s rippled glow,
And all the things that grow,
And are not sad—
Sad ! sad!

O, sad when lambkins skip,
O, sad when children play,
Sad, sad, when to my lip
Is pressed the dewy may,
And all the bright things say :—
" Why art thou sad?"
Sad ! sad!

Is it some tricksy Puck
That makes me causeless dole ?
Or does some vampire suck
The blood from out my soul?
Or is it joy diviner,
Joy echoing in a minor,
Joy vibrant to its pole,
That seems but sad ?—
Sad ! sad!

Is it the ebbing ghost
Of God that leaves me dry
Upon a weary coast,
Beneath a burning sky?
Is it His voice afar
That booms upon the bar,
And makes me sigh,
And makes me sad?
Sad! sad!

Or does the old travail-pain
Resume the mother-geist ?
In some far orb again
Is boundless ransom priced
For others than for us?
In Mars, or Uranus,
They crucify the Christ?
So am I sad—
Sad ! sad!

One thing appears to me—
The work is not complete
One world I know, and see
It is not at His feet—
Not, not ! Is this the sum?
Not, not ! the Heaven is dumb—
I bear His stigmata
Or not—ah, who shall say?
Only it is most meet That I be sad—
Sad ! sad!