Each Present Joy Or Sorrow

I Stalk About Her Door, Like A Strange Soul Upon The Stygian Banks Staying For Waftage.

This Night I Hold An Old Accustomed Feast, Whereto I Have Invited Many A Guest, Such As I Love; And You Among The Store, One More, Most Welcome, Makes My Number More.

So May I, Blind Fortune Leading Me, Miss That Which One Unworthier May Attain, And Die With Grieving.

My Nature Is Subdued To What It Works In, Like The Dyer's Hand.

If Thou Engrossest All The Griefs Are Thine, Thou Robb'st Me Of A Moiety.