Sweet Joy

Sweet joy, I oft have drank of thee;
What of the glass became, tell me?
It broke, the goblet which I drained,
And broken glass alone remained.

And, bitter grief, I drank of thee;
What of the goblet came to be?
It cracked, the tumbler which I drained,
And broken glass alone remained.
The radiant sun the heart enjoys;
The darkling storm-cloud but annoys;
Grief is the heart's dark cloud, I say,
Which rising winds bear far away,

I like a shadow am; as though
About a graveyard I do go,
O, days departed, days gone by,
Ye are the graveyard where I sigh!

And through this graveyard in- the night
A firefly is my guiding light;
And o'er the graves of my dead days
My memory like a firefly plays.

The air with motion now is fraught;
A cool, faint breeze is o'er me brought;
And whisperingly it asks of me,
Is it not better not to be?