And thus they talk’d,
Till, welcoming doubt, my faith succumb’d to it;
And all the love once making me so proud,
Whose growth, I thought, would be so sweet and fair,
Stung like a very thistle in my soul;
Each breath of theirs would blow its prickles keen,
And sow its pestering seedlets far and wide
O’er every pleasing prospect of my life.
XXXI.
And I recall my calling out in prayer,