When I go back to earth 
And all my joyous body 
Puts off the red and white 
That once had been so proud, 
If men should pass above 
With false and feeble pity, 
My dust will find a voice 
To answer them aloud:

"Be still, I am content, 
Take back your poor compassion, 
Joy was a flame in me 
Too steady to destroy; 
Lithe as a bending reed 
Loving the storm that sways her-- 
I found more joy in sorrow 
Than you could find in joy."