Unhappy of heart, and have as his portion
Many sorrows of soul, unceasing breast-cares,
45 Though now blithe of behavior. Unbearable likewise
Be his joys in the world. Wide be his exile
To far-away folk-lands where my friend sits alone,
A stranger under stone-cliffs, by storm made hoary,
A weary-souled wanderer, by waters encompassed,
50 In his lonely lodging. My lover endures
Unmeasured mind-care: he remembers too oft
A happier home. To him is fate cruel