O, sad when grass is green,
O, sad when blue-bells blow,
Sad, sad 'mid lily sheen,
Laburnum's rippled glow,
And all the things that grow,
And are not sad —
Sad! sad!

O, sad when lambkins skip,
O, sad when children play,
Sad, sad, when to my lip
Is pressed the dewy may,
And all the bright things say: —
" Why art thou sad? "
Sad! sad!

Is it some tricksy Puck
That makes me causeless dole?
Or does some vampire suck
The blood from out my soul?
Or is it joy diviner,
Joy echoing in a minor,
Joy vibrant to its pole,
That seems but sad? —
Sad! sad!

Is it the ebbing ghost
Of God that leaves me dry
Upon a weary coast,
Beneath a burning sky?
Is it His voice afar
That booms upon the bar,
And makes me sigh,
And makes me sad?
Sad! sad!

Or does the old travail-pain
Resume the mother- geist?
In some far orb again
Is boundless ransom priced
For others than for us?
In Mars, or Uranus,
They crucify the Christ?
So am I sad —
Sad! sad!

One thing appears to me —
The work is not complete;
One world I know, and see
It is not at His feet —
Not, not! Is this the sum?
Not, not! the Heaven is dumb —
I bear His stigmata
Or not — ah, who shall say?
Only it is most meet
That I be sad —
Sad! sad!