"Sadness" is the thing with thorns - 

That pricks into the soul - 

And gives the hug without the arms - 

And never leaves the Noll - 

And softly - in the Night - does carve -

And steel must be the shears - 

That are able to prune the Barb

That drew, from many, tears -

I've felt it on the sweetest Rose - 

And amid golden glee - 

Yet, never, in Despairity,

It spared a part - of Me.