Someone had marked the verse that wrung his mind:

Love not as do the flesh-imprisoned men

For it is but thyself thou lovest then,"

And left the sonnet blackly underlined.

Even in reading books the wretched find

That words are cruel, and I saw the pen

Confess a former hurt, that hurt again,

As only memories can be unkind.

Still further down the page he underscored:

I would I might forget that I am I,"

The sharp pen cutting like a keen-edged sword.

Wretched the mortal - " and I knew his cry,

And what unpeacefulness his heart had stored,

But not his name, and not his reason why.

I had no need to know that lover's name

Whose dreams were of a bitter bought caress."

I knew him not, yet knew him none the less.

The tale is old, and always runs the same.

Not what it was, but what his love became,

Stood there revealed, without love's tenderness

That died before his hope to repossess

His first love burning like a full bright flame.

All that remained was hunger, strict and stark

As Roman letters cut upon a stone.

To ease the heartache, such a man might mark

The words "- to know his aching heart alone,"

And leave them underlined as deep and dark

As if the hand and pen had been my own.