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!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on June 15, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry, Trends

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