The Inn of Dreams/Grief

by Olive Custance

For other versions of this work, see Grief (Custance).

Grief

I, that was once so eager for the light,
The vehement pomp and passion of the day,
Am tired at last, and glad to steal away
Across the dusky borders of the night.
The purple darkness now is my delight,
And with great stars my lonely sorrows play,
As still, some proud and tragic princess may
With diamonds make her desolation bright.

Night has become a temple for my tears . . .
The moon a silver shroud for my despair,
And all the golden forests of the spheres

Have showered their splendours on me leaf by leaf
Till men that meet me in the sunlight, stare
To see the shining garment of my grief!