On a moonless midsummer night, the speaker is struck by the abundance of stars: not just the bright ones, but even the faintest lights low in the north near the Little Bear. The sight is calm, vast, and strangely attentive.
Before this, she has been complaining that her life is a “tragic farce” with no dignity, joy, or resolution. But the night’s quiet beauty stops her short. It feels holy and close, as though the stars are gathering around her. In that presence, she feels ashamed—not of her pain, but of the way she gave in to bitterness. The capitalized “Friend” suggests something sacred: perhaps God, the night itself, or the deepest part of herself. The mood moves from despair to awe and gentle self-reproach.