"One grief there is ..."

The One Grief

One grief there is, the helpmeet of my heart,

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.

~by Edith Wharton, born January 24, 1862

From Artemis to Actaeon and Other Verses

* "Reflection" by Odilon Redon, circa 1900

Postscript: After I hit "publish" on this post I got to wondering whether I'd ever noted Wharton's birthday in the past. I haven't, but boy, there's quite a bit of Wharton-related musing on this blog. If you're interested, you can find a roundup here.