Out of the Sighs

Out of the sighs a little comes, But not of grief, for I have knocked down that Before the agony; the spirit grows, Forgets, and cries; A little comes, is tasted and found good; All could not disappoint; There must, be praised, some certainty, If not of loving well, then not, And that is true after perpetual defeat. After such fighting as the weakest know, There's more than dying; Lose the great pains or stuff the wound, He'll ache too long Through no regret of leaving woman waiting For her soldier stained with spilt words That spill such acrid blood. Were that enough, enough to ease the pain, Feeling regret when this is wasted That made me happy in the sun, How much was happy while it lasted, Were vagueness enough and the sweet lies plenty, The hollow words could bear all suffering And cure me of ills. Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew, The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin, Groping for matter under the dog's plate, Man should be cured of distemper. For all there is to give I offer: Crumbs, barn, and halter.