The One Grief

by Edith Wharton

　　That shall not from me till my days be sped,

　　That walks beside me in sunshine and in shade,

　　And hath in all my fortunes equal part.

　　At first I feared it, and would often start

　　Aghast to find it bending o'er my bed,

　　Till usage slowly dulled the edge of dread,

　　And one cold night I cried: _How warm thou art!_

　　Since then we two have travelled hand in hand,

　　And, lo, my grief has been interpreter

　　For me in many a fierce and alien land

　　Whose speech young Joy had failed to understand,

　　Plucking me tribute of red gold and myrrh

　　From desolate whirlings of the desert sand.