Mourning is an eerie thing, Not always tied to death. It may celebrate or sing, May widen eyes or lighten breath, May bring unexpected things.
Sometimes it is a wayward thief, That steals among the tombs; It can alter feelings, and twist beliefs, Searching for less bitter rooms, Yet it brings a strange relief.
The heart may not know it, Nor the mind accept it, But it may be for the best. As it guides the sorrowful away from grief, To a long and healing rest.
Re-reading this, I was reminded of some of the riddles in JRR Tolkien'ts "The Hobbit". I'm fairly sure these were based on the word-play of either Anglo-Saxon speech or Middle English, that Tolkien knew so well. Perhaps I worked some of this in unknowingly?