Some have drunk their cares to sleep And gone to paradise with wine, But I no tryst or vigil keep With any offspring of the vine. My solace in my times of woe Is songs of sadness, plaintive, old, Full of that pain that all men know, That men have known for time untold. And when my lips have sung these songs Somehow I do not feel so sad; It seems to sing of wounds and wrongs Consoles my heart and makes me glad. I do not know why this should be, Why grief on grief begets this joy, But it has been that way with me Since I was just a little boy. |