Be It Mine To Draw From Wisdom's

Still To The Sufferer Comes, As Due From God, A Glory That To Suffering Owes Its Birth.

To Be Fortunate Is God, And More Than God To Mortals.

They Who Prosper Take On Airs Of Vanity.

In Visions Of The Night, Like Dropping Rain, Descend The Many Memories Of Pain.

For The Poison Of Hatred Seated Near The Heart Doubles The Burden For The One Who Suffers The Disease; He Is Burdened With His Own Sorrow, And Groans On Seeing Another's Happiness.