And I refused all comfort, turned aside
Wishing that in my weakness I had died.
I uttered no reply,
But without ceasing wept, and moaned, and prayed
The hand of death no longer might be stayed.
I shunned the gaze of all.
I knew that pity dwelt in every look.
Pity e’en then my proud breast could not brook,
Though darkness as a pall
Circled me round, each mournful eye I felt