Mysteries of Pain
by
Nathanael Smith

Echoes of the mysteries of pain
Far-reaching and as wrong as rain
The staunching hand is on the wrists in vain
Agony is all that's in the brain

Turning coat-tails, sympathy is dead
The kindly ear is turned, and turned to lead
Yearning, peace is burning in it's bed
And writhes like venomous Medusae's head

Ignoble champion, a penny's breadth away
Is watching, his arm is stopped to stay
His valor, a play-per-view-per-play
Is waiting for the dusk to grow to day