He saw my heart’s woe, discovered my soul’s anguish,
How in fever, in thirst, in atrophy it pined;
Knew he could heal, yet looked and let it languish,
To its moans spirit-deaf, to its pangs spirit-blind.
But once a year he heard a whisper low and dreary,
Appealing for aid, entreating some reply;
Only when sick, soul-worn and torture-weary,
Breathed I that prayer—heard I that sigh.
He was mute as is the grave, he stood stirless as a tower;
At last I looked up, and saw I prayed to stone: