Count them unclean, these tears that turn no mill

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.