To My Misery

A poem by Morris Rosenfeld

O Misery of mine, no other
In faithfulness can match with thee,
Thou more than friend, and more than brother,
The only thing that cares for me!

Where'er I turn, are unkind faces,
And hate and treachery and guile,
Thou, Mis'ry, in all times and places,
Dost greet me with thy pallid smile.

At birth I found thee waiting for me,
I knew thee in my cradle first,
The same small eyes and dim watched o'er me,
The same dry, bony fingers nursed.

And day by day when morning lightened,
To school thou led'st me--home did'st bring,
And thine were all the blooms that brightened
The chilly landscape of my spring.

And, thou my match and marriage monger,
The marriage deed by thee was read;
The hands foretelling need and hunger
Were laid in blessing on my head.

Thy love for me shall last unshaken,
No further proof I ask, for when
My hopes for aye were from me taken,
My Mis'ry, thou wert with me then;

And still, while sorrow's storm is breaking
Above me, and my head I bow--
The kindly and the unforsaking,
Oh Mis'ry, thou art with me now.

Ay, still from out Fate's gloomy towers
I see thee come to me again,
With wreaths of everlasting flowers,
And songs funereal in thy train.

And when life's curses rock me nightly,
And hushed I lie in slumber's hold,
Thy sable form comes treading lightly
To wrap me in its garments fold.

Thy brother let me be, and wholly
Repay thee all I owe, tho' late:
My aching heart, my melancholy,
My songs to thee I dedicate.

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