ce laugh at the dear children round,
Since flowers, henceforth, can give me no relief.
Since in the Spring, when God makes Nature crave,
I see with joyless soul that love so bright;
Since reached the hour when man avoids the light,
And knows the bitterness that all things have.
Since from my soul all hope has passed away;
Since, in this month of fragrance and the rose,
My child! I wish to share thy dark repose;
Since, dead my heart, too long in life I stay.
From earth's set task I never sought to fly:
Ploughed is my furrow, and my harvest o'er.
Cheerful I lived, and gentle more and more--
Erect, yet prone to bow towards mystery.
I've done my best: with work and watching worn,
I've seen that many mocked my grieving state;
And I have wondered at there causeless hate,
Having much sorrow and much labour borne.
In this world's gaol, where all escape is vain,
Unmurmuring, bleeding, prostrate 'neath the shock.
Silent, exhausted, jeered by felon mock,
I've dragged my link of the eternal chain.
Now my tired eyes are but half open kept,
To turn when I am called is all I can,
Wearied and stupefied, and like a man
Who rises e'er the morn, and ne'er has slept.
Idle through grief, I neither deign nor care
Notice to take of envy's noisome spite.
O Lord! now open me the gates of night,
That I may get me gone, and disappear.

Victor Hugo