When shadows cross a beaming room,
Some cry that talk of grief is wrong
As though mere thought could spell our doom
Or dim joyful cheer with sombre gong.
They chase delight, a heedless throng,
And flee what stirs their inward ache;
Yet hearts grow neither wise nor strong
By shunning truths they fear to wake.
They say that pain is a grim perfume
That chokes the joy they wish to share,
But often what they name as gloom
Is memory of their own lack of care:
Their conscience whispers, sharp and fair;
This sparks the protests people make,
Their comfort is too rich and rare
For those who fear their faults to wake.
And some will twist the tender loom
Of care into a selfish thread:
Your pain ignored because they fume,
Their wounded airs demand you tread
On eggshells, lest their tears be shed.
They take, but never give or stake
A moment’s grace or arms outspread,
To meet the truths they fear to wake.
Envoi.
Princess, choose those whose hearts partake
In honest bonds they do not forsake;
For joy is deep when souls presume
To share both laughter and heartbreak
And never fear the truths we wake.
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