There is a fructifying sort of grief
That lays a floor beneath a cloistered scream;
That visits torment frequently to leave
A flower at the foot of barren stone.
Do not turn from grief or measure sorrow,
But let them water well your inner garden;
Let your anguish melt into a passion
That transforms pain to unrequited music.
So might love visit loneliness as often
As shadows shade the heart from utter light,
Bringing in its darkness a reunion
Between what was and what will always be.