The poem
SORROW, on wing through the world for ever, Here and there for awhile would borrow Rest, if rest might haply deliver Sorrow.
One thought lies close in her heart gnawn thorough With pain, a weed in a dried-up river, A rust-red share in an empty furrow.
Hearts that strain at her chain would sever The link where yesterday frets to-morrow: All things pass in the world, but never Sorrow.