TO HER WHO WOULD COMFORT HIM br I did not ask your pity, dear. Your zeal br I know. It cannot cure me of my woes. br And you, in your sweet happiness, who knows, br Deserve it rather I should pity feel br For what the coming years from you conceal. br I did but cry, thou dear Samaritan, br Out of my bitterness of soul. Each man br Has his own sorrow treading on his heel, br Ready to strike him, and must keep his shield br To his own back. Fate's arrows thickly fly, br And, if they strike not now, will strike at even. br And so I ask no pity. On life's field br The wounded crawl together, but their cry br Is not to one another but to Heaven.