Poem By Sophia White
It is frightening – to be so happy
You can hardly keep from crying.
And even more so, when you find
Joy in inconsequential things,
And all the things that matter
Are twisted and terribly wrong.
It is strange, when happiness rebels
Against its normal sources,
And when it grows to tempestuously strong
That no sorrow can overcome it.
So rarely do I find joy more deadly
Than sorrow. It is strange.
Yet even though I cannot understand
Why my heart flies and my mind reels
With utter and yet unreasonable joy,
I can still love it and be happy,
And with a smile, toss my head
At any critic, years hence, who may
Discard these words in disgust,
Muttering, “There is no joy as this,
And it is sentimental fantasy.”
What need have I of critics’ accolade?
Even they cannot dampen my spirit.