And when my Joy was born, I held it in my arms and stood on 
the house-top shouting, “Come ye, my neighbours, come and 
see, for Joy this day is born unto me. Come and behold this 
gladsome thing that laugheth in the sun.”
     But none of my neighbours came to look upon my Joy, and 
great was my astonishment.
     And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my Joy from the 
house-top—and yet no one heeded me. And my Joy and I were 
alone, unsought and unvisited.
     Then my Joy grew pale and weary because no other heart but 
mine held its loveliness and no other lips kissed its lips.
     Then my Joy died of isolation.
     And now I only remember my dead Joy in remembering my 
dead Sorrow. But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a 
while in the wind and then is heard no more.