Where praise already is is the only place Grief
ought to go, that water spirit of the pools of tears;
she watches over our defeats to make sure
the water rises clear from the same rock
that holds up the huge doors and the alters.
You can see, around her motionless shoulders, a feeling
dawns--we sense more and more that she
is the youngest of the three sisters we have inside.
Rejoicing has lost her doubts, and longing broods on her error,
Only grief still learns: she spends the whole night
counting up our evil inheritance with her small hands.
She is awkward, but all at once
she makes our voice rise, sideways, like a constellation
into the sky, not troubled by her breath.
