Explore "The One Grief" by Edith Wharton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
ONE grief there is, the helpmeet of my heart, / That shall not from me till my days be sped, / That walks beside me in sunshine and in shade, / And hath in all my fortunes equal part.
At first I feared it, and would often start / Aghast to find it bending o'er my bed, / Till usage slowly dulled the edge of dread, / And one cold night I cried: _How warm thou art! _
Since then we two have travelled hand in hand, / And, lo, my grief has been interpreter / For me in many a fierce and alien land / Whose speech young Joy had failed to understand, / Plucking me tribute of red gold and myrrh / From desolate whirlings of the desert sand.