Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death 
the memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him Together with remembrance of ourselves.

The wisest sorrow
He says
Is the one that has a double vision
To see both loss and gain at once.
Discretion has won this battle with nature
Which, of course, assumes that they are on separate sides.
If grief is natural
Doesn’t discretion suggest
The expression of it?
We do not bear our hearts in grief
Or knit our brows in woe
On purpose.
It is natural that we should
But if we do it because reason says we ought to
That is no longer grief
That is no longer woe.
We’re in trappings and suits territory here.
Then, too, if we feel our hearts in grief
And want to knit our brows in woe
And do not allow them forth
Due to some imagined discretion,
Aren’t we then betraying our wisdom?
The wisest sorrow
Would seem to be the one that knows what it is and
Finds its way out
Allowing the heart to heave if it must
Or the brow to knit.
The wisest sorrow is not likely to be
A double-speak speech
Circling around the idea of sorrow.
It is not likely to brag
About the triumph of reason
Or discretion
Over nature.
It is not a bulldozer laughing over fallen trees.
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