I carried the weight of sorrow too great to hold And could not let it go for it remained All that was left of riches more precious than gold, The radiant one, the pure, of joy unstained.
The years pass slowly before these ancient eyes, In a body despite its age, still unknown, That only in moments is able to recognize The Inhabitant within by which it has grown.
The way is found, the problem lies not there But in the sullen forces that oppose And cling to their misfortunes and despair More precious than the essence of the rose.
The climb is long and steeper seems the hill Yet by Her Grace stronger is the will.
Poems Undated (1727)
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