SAD is my lot; among the shining spheres 
Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night, 
And ever, in my never-ending flight, 
Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears. 
Young wives? and new-born infants? hapless biers 
Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight; 
Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light; 
Pain and remorse and want fill up my years. 
My happier children?s farther-piercing eyes 
Into the blessed solvent future climb, 
And knit the threads of joy and hope and warning; 
But I, the ancient mother, am not wise, 
And, shut within the blind obscure of time, 
Roll on from morn to night, and on from night to morning.