But thou—canst thou turn in thy woe aside,
And weep midst thy sisters? No, not for pride.
May the fiery word from thy lip find way,
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to-day?
May the grief that sits in thy weary breast,
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel’s guest?
No! with the shaft in thy bosom born,
Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn!
Thou must fold thy mantle, that none may see,
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free!