My sick and suffering heart is newly stricken
When Night departs and Dawn adjusts its robe.
As some poor wounded wretch might sink and sicken
Seeing the surgeon bare his shining probe,
The sun was loth this morning to awaken;
It held its radiance back and seemed to wait
As if it knew my joy had all been taken
And one long day would fain abbreviate.
Then in that little pause as if from heaven
This message flashed authoritative, brief:
"What boundless wealth of love to you was given---
How vast the joy whose loss could mean such grief!"
All through the day with lifted brow I went
A pauper now, who once was opulent!
Sonnets of sorrow and triumph. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
New York: George H. Doran, 1918.
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