None ever was in love with me but grief.
   She wooed my from the day that I was born;
She stole my playthings first, the jealous thief,
   And left me there forlorn.

The birds that in my garden would have sung,
   She scared away with her unending moan;
She slew my lovers too when I was young,
   And left me there alone.

Grief, I have cursed thee often—now at last
   To hate thy name I am no longer free;
Caught in thy bony arms and prisoned fast,
   I love no love but thee.