To St Augustine Of Hippo Poem by David Mitchell

Strange consolation! Anguish and despair
Are in Augustine's sorrow-laden face
As in some distant solitary place
He bends his head, and rushing tears of care
Roll from his eyes down to his cov'ring hands –
The most intelligent man who has lived
At inward melancholy has arrived
In silent stillness on deserted sands.
What ails thee, father? art thou rack'd with guilt,
Or hast thou suffer'd irreplaceable loss?
Let me weep with thee, brother, tear for tear,
As both our sorrow-water forth is spilt,
Be we both mindful of the bitter Cross,
At once the best and worst, forgetting fear.