ONE grief there is, the helpmeet of my heart, <br />That shall not from me till my days be sped, <br />That walks beside me in sunshine and shade, <br />And hath in all my fortunes equal part. <br />At first I feared it, and would often start <br />Aghast to find it bending o'er my bed, <br />Till usage slowly dulled the edge of dread, <br />And one cold night I cried: How warm thou art! <br /> <br /> <br />Since then we two have travelled hand in hand, <br />And, lo, my grief has been interpreter <br />For me in many a fierce and alien land <br />Whose speech young Joy had failed to understand, <br />Plucking me tribute of red gold and myrrh <br />>From desolate whirlings of the desert sand.<br /><br />Edith Wharton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-one-grief/
