No lovely drop of tears, and of blood, from my mother dropped on my head
Have I sworn shall drop in vain, as each vain drop augments her sea of sorrows;
And my own private woes, still adding to hers combined, sends her to the throes.
So to make her live I stay merry, and one complaint leaves her dead.
Therefore has Umuala sprouted no youth merrier
Than myself; free as sweet children, preferring simple things,
And loose as the four-angled wind long since.
But now the climate changes, and those sweet leaves of cheer begin wither –
For in each tear from your eyes which drops inheres a mirror
Wherein I look and see woes bigger than one soul could own,
As each shines out your own, and reminds me of mine, trickling down;
So by each dropping the tide of my sorrows mounts the shore,
And charges now to break the very banks of my patience –
Which doing, refresh you, and drown my mother in that violence!