Laugh rather, and be gay,
In dazzling robes of silk and gold held up
By hand fair as a countess's, while you haste
To join the dance! Then weep and wait—what for?
The garb of shame that's waiting at thy door!
As if the tears had frozen
Between the eyelids of the dying boy
Whom thou couldst not revive, O wretched mother,
And turned to precious gems,
So shines the fillet in the dame's black hair,