Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
Come not within the measure of my wrath.
Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
Then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
Faint heart never won fair maid.