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That carry all joy to the heart are wounded or killed by the knife;
"When a gangrene sinks to the bone, it is only half-death that serves;
And a life with a cureless pain is only half a life.

But why unhealed must the spirit endure? There are drugs for the body's dole;
Have we wholly lived for the lower life? Is there never a balm for the soul?
O Night, cry out for the healer of woe, for the priest-physician cry,
"With the pouring oil for the bleeding grief, for the life that may not die!

"He is false to the heart!" she moaned; "and I love him and cannot hate!"
Then bitterly, fiercely—"What have I done, my God, for such a fate?"

"Poor heart!" said the Teacher; "for thee and thy sorrow the daily parables speak.
Thy grief, that is dark, illumes for me a sign that was dim and weak.