Had found her nature so belied, misjudged,
Her life the embodiment of hollow sound,
And all surroundings echoing back but sound,
Chill admiration in the place of love,
Her friends but flatterers, and herself unknown.
“With this, her world had grown so hard, so parch’d,
Without one source affording sympathy—
She took no credit to herself for aught;
The weakest sigh that could have heaved a breast,
A dying breast, had crack’d so dry a crust—