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Poem	I had a little Sorrow, Born of a little Sin, I found a room all damp with gloom And shut us all within; And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I, "And, Little Sin, pray God to die, And I upon the floor will lie And think how bad I've been!" Alas for pious planning— It mattered not a whit! As far as gloom went in that room, The lamp might have been lit! My little Sorrow would not weep, My little Sin would go to sleep— To save my soul I could not keep My graceless mind on it! So I got up in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad, And, "One thing there's no getting by— I've been a wicked girl," said I: "But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!"
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