Rhaspody

You hardened griefs robed in base linens red, Whence cascade your endless prickings sore? Each searing tear squeezed from low eye wet, Breeds more noxious throbs that come and go. Once when sweet relief your brutish whips With belated solace and little mercies clips, I mistaken think all of your wild rages gone; Past ill turns now-free souls used to mourn. Yet even as I dined and wined to celebrate Abated storms wreaked by your cruel blows, You again hurled into this glorious banquet Your timely bile that with my merries grows. Where beyond griefs' pain-dominated realm, May hurting pilgrim his ill-faring vessel dock? Where past cry's long reach and filtered gall, Might the lamenting traveler rest and dream? There's high haven way-worn sojourners win, In a glorious city above sorrow's dreadful din.