A CONFESSION TO A FRIEND IN TROUBLE
YOUR troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
Here, far away, than when I tarried near:
I even smile old smiles—with listlessness—
Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.
I thought too strange to house within my brain
Haunting its outer precincts I discern:
—That I will not show zeal again to learn
Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain. . . .
