I do not want it so,

But since things so are made,

Sorrow, sorrow,

Be you my second trade.

I’ll learn the workman’s skill

And mould the mass of ill

Until I have it so, or so,

And want it so.

I cannot have it so

Unless I frankly make

A pact with sorrow

For joy and sorrow’s sake,

And wring from sorrow’s pay

Wealth joy would toss away—

Till both are balanced, so, or so,

And even go.

If it were only so …

But right and left I find

Sorrow, sorrow,

And cannot be resigned,

Knowing that we were made

By joy to drive joy’s trade

And not to waver to and fro,

But quickly go.