There's a round that we sing in the Spring about new life rising up again out of the darkness:
Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain:
wheat that in the deep Earth many days hath lain.
Love lives again, that with the dead hath been:
love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.
The tune is delicate, poignant: a song of joy in a minor key.
This is no ignorant joy, a happiness too inexperienced (or too stupid) to know anything different. This is the joy of the wise: the happiness of those who know life and all the sorrows that it must inevitably bring, and yet choose joy.
Witches are well-acquainted with trouble. As a people, we've seen many, many sorrows down the long years, nor (alas) are they over yet. As we must, we remember them all.