Classic Poem

Who can support the anguish of love?
Who can drain the bitter draught of destiny?

I said in my grief,
In my burning passion:
“O would that he who caused my sickness
Had tended me when I was sick!”
He passed by the house door,
Mocking, hiding himself;
Veiling his head,
And turning away.

His veiling did me no hurt;
I was only hurt by his having turned away from me.