The gift of sorrow, seldom sought,
Is given to us each one day:
And laughter shared, or battles fought,
Don’t signify much on the way

When nowhere seems like anywhere
That is (could be) worth going:
And all we’ve come to proudly know
Seems like nothing worth knowing

The gift of sorrow isn’t one
We ever ask for, yet we get
A measure of it here and there
Though we be fanciful or set

In our own ways, those ways go dark,
And leave us loth to get up:
The gift of sorrow, seldom sought,
But that we can’t
Get rid of