Nice are the rays of the lamp
Atop the thorny grey hill
Bleak are the days sans pomp,
For the wintry nights are chill.
Sweet are the thoughts we trace,
But they crumble tender hearts.
All nights and noons of grimace
Invite and crush pure hearts.
Thorny is the path to the lamp,
But its borders are decked with blooms.
The vale of souls is damp
And the gale of the hearts brings glooms.
Beneath a barren creeper,
We sleep on the cot of grief,
Can’t we ponder deeper
Over the ways to the lamp of relief?