Count them unclean, these tears that turn no mill,
This salty flux of sorrow from the heart;
Count them unclean, and give me one day still
To weep, in an avoided room apart.
I shall come forth at length with reddened lid
Transparent, and thick mouth, and take the plough . . .
That other men may hope, as I once did;
That other men may weep, as I do now.
 
I am beside you, I am at your back
Firing our bridges, I am in your van;
I share your march, your hunger; all I lack
Is the strong song I cannot sing, you can.
You think we build a world; I think we leave
Only these tools, wherewith to strain and grieve.