Once, long ago, I heard an old man say,
“Two pounds of sorrow is the price you pay
For every pound of bliss.”
But I was young and such a reckoning
Seemed far too steep; now, in a later spring,
I’d gladly offer far, far more than this.
—Alice Mackenzie Swaim, “Now, in a Later Spring,” Crickets Are Crying Autumn, 1960