My second sorrow is that, should she die
And underneath the sod in silence lie,
No one thenceforth would know a prince am I.
If every star were diamond through and through,
And every bud were pearl, they would not do
To pay for all the affection that I knew.
If all earth’s mill-streams through my heart should flood
And murmur each a psalm of gratitude,
Then, even so, my thanks were poor and rude.
If all the earth were Hybla honey sweet,
Yet how return her sweetness as is meet? —
This, my third sorrow, makes my grief complete.