By the pure days when yet that love was young,
Shed but one ray of light—one gleam of hope
Upon the darkness of my dungeoned soul!
Gret. What wouldst thou with me? Speak, my hour is brief.
Faus. Time was when every tongue was eloquent
With legends of thy God-sent charity.
Gretchen,
Of all the starving crowd thy hands have fed,
Never was wretch so famine-worn as I.
Of all the agony thy words have soothed,