A wanderer on that plain of tears,
Bowed with a burden not of the years,
As one that goeth sorrowing
For many an unforgotten thing.
To the crystal well as the sun drew low
There came that harridan of woe.
She stooped to drink; I heard her cry:
"Ah, God, how tired out am I!
"I called him by the dearest name
A girl may call; I have my shame.