He is as heavy as a widow's heart.
I know, too, all his thoughts, and his thoughts burn me,
Because he thinks upon my sorrow.
And when we pass some hut, I say,
"Let us linger here awhile, this hut seemeth pleasant to me,"
But he answers, "Never a hut may open its doors to thee,"
And when I ask him, "Friend, art thou not yet weary?"
He answers, "I? I rest in thy weariness,
Refresh myself in thy sweat."
Even on my own hearth