In greatest tragedy the soul is wrought,
And so, in such a baneful plaguing flame,
Is any soul to be birthèd so lame
That it could not behold a simple thought.
So simple are they that they may be naught,
These lessons what our souls desire to frame,
And yet we strive ahead to them, the same,
As if with strength our souls would thus be fraught.
But when the smoke doth clear, the views be grand:
The stars alight, a beauteous night doth come,
The thoughts align, and all is truly well.
As if by some beloved holy hand,
The fog of mourning has been now undone,
And Clarity may now its story tell.