The sad heart is the most poetic and romantic,
Willing to think up a thousand remedies for its listless aliments,
But the pathetic sobbing and tears are self mourning.
So trapped is the tortured artist that the light at the end of the tunnel
Only serves to blind them, and shun away their smiles.
I’ll pass,
And write sturdily from a solid place
Where I am not afraid of a jubilee,
And if I am forgotten or never found
In spite of my upturned frown,
Then shame on me. Shame on me.
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