a place of rest?
What one is this, your hue and cry pursue
with withering hate,
Until her best hope is to die, nor meet a
harder fate?

This, this is she who hides her head in shame
to gloom the sun;
Who waits, as in their graves the dead, until
the day is done;
Whose tasks make pitiful the dark, and dreadful
all the night,
And leave her spirit striken stark and crushed
at morning light.

Beneath the shadows of silk and lace her form
is spare and shrunk,
And through the rogue upon her face see how
her cheeks have sunk,
Her lightsome laugh hides not her thought;
her brow is scarred with care.
And her flashing rings with jewels wrought,
but gild and grace despair.

Has she no tears to weep for grief, no voice to
cry with woe,
No memories panged beyond belief for joys
of long ago,
Has she no tortured dreams to smart, no anguish
for her brow,