Unbowed

How would it feel having no single woe to bear, In that sooty heart oft stung by ceaseless tear? Wouldn't the sobs-accustomed soul court pain, To save those melancholic rhythms in its stain? It's abnormal for usually teary eyes not to cry, For that erstwhile crestfallen spirit not to sulk. Used to endless gall it's sickly to feel brighter, It's a health disorder to let go of that acid bulk. And can this be the preponderant reason fair, Fate gives each mortal breast its itching care? Could earth's being all-free from fettering cries Birth taboo alien studs obnoxious to the skies? I'd wish to pass life's mean hour in gayest glee, But if Wiser Lot considers it far much saintlier To lead a gloomy existence by ruings checked, Thus rightly eschewed by oily mirths let me be. There's huge heroism in every iron dragon slain; None in safest paths unmarred by battle's stain.