I would esteem it but a paltry thing;
If choirs of minstrels sang the songs of heaven,
To me their songs as discords harsh would ring.
“Oh, in what corner have they buried thee?
How shall I e’er forget thy tenderness?
My heart and soul are wounded grievously,
All flowers are dead—this place a wilderness.
“The Psalmist’s words are now fulfilled in me;
Mournful I go, and like a pelican
About the wilderness roam hopelessly,