Watching here alone by the fire whereat last year
Sat with me the friend that a week since yet was near,
⁠That a week has borne so far and hid so deep,
⁠Woe am I that I may not weep,
⁠May not yearn to behold him here.

Shame were mine, and little the love I bore him were,
Now to mourn that better he fares than love may fare
⁠Which desires, and would not have indeed, its will,
⁠Would not love him so worse than ill,
⁠Would not clothe him again with care.