For the Ghosts of Fond Companions

What are two or three cups of weak wine
Against relentless wind? There’s a kind

Of sorrow you encounter, sorrow
That happens to you, and there’s the kind

Of sorrow that you sink in. Drink up.
We could make an epic catalogue

To exhaust the synonyms for grief
In any language that still exists—

It would take a book to blend those lists.
You know how distilled sentiment is.

A splash of cold water on your face,
And then you can brave the wind again.