I have made grief a gorgeous, queenly thing,
And worn my melancholy with an air.
My tears were big as stars to deck my hair
...
My arms were always quiet,
Close and never freed,
I was furled like a banner,
...
Men know that the birch-tree always
Will grow where they cut down the pine —
This is the way of the forest,
And the same way shall be mine.
...