Nothing begins, and nothing ends,That is not paid with moan;For we are born in others' pain,And perish in our own.
The mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain,And the anguish of the singer marks the sweetness of the strain.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and freeYe publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily wonGod out of knowledge and good out of infinite painAnd sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.Sidney Lanier
Our poet's singing lips are dumb:This his last gift, to us has broughtThe pain pressed vintage of his thoughtHis life of song, his life of pain,And, being dead, he speaks again.flora thompson
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