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.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-love-sonnets-of-proteus-part-ii-to-juliet-xxix/
