Light
flows
our
war
of
mocking
words,
and
yet,
Behold,
with
tears
mine
eyes
are
wet!
I
feel
a
nameless
sadness
o'er
me
roll.
Yes,
yes,
we
know
that
we
can
jest,
We
know,
we
know
that
we
can
smile!
But
there's
a
something
in
this
breast,
To
which
thy
light
words
bring
no
rest,
And
thy
gay
smiles
no
anodyne.
Give
me
thy
hand,
and
hush
awhile,
And
turn
those
limpid
eyes
on
mine,
And
let
me
read
there,
love!
thy
inmost
soul.
Alas!
is
even
love
too
weak
To
unlock
the
heart,
and
let
it
speak?
Are
even
lovers
powerless
to
reveal
To
one
another
what
indeed
they
feel?
I
knew
the
mass
of
men
conceal'd
Their
thoughts,
for
fear
that
if
reveal'd
They
would
by
other
men
be
met
With
blank
indifference,
or
with
blame
reproved;
I
knew
they
lived
and
moved
Trick'd
in
disguises,
alien
to
the
rest
Of
men,
and
alien
to
themselves—and
yet
The
same
heart
beats
in
every
human
breast!
But
we,
my
love!—doth
a
like
spell
benumb
Our
hearts,
our
voices?—must
we
too
be
dumb?
Ah!
well
for
us,
if
even
we,
Even
for
a
moment,
can
get
free
Our
heart,
and
have
our
lips
unchain'd;
For
that
which
seals
them
hath
been
deep-ordain'd!
Fate,
which
foresaw
How
frivolous
a
baby
man
would
be—
By
what
distractions
he
would
be
possess'd,
How
he
would
pour
himself
in
every
strife,
And
well-nigh
change
his
own
identity—
That
it
might
keep
from
his
capricious
play
His
genuine
self,
and
force
him
to
obey
Even
in
his
own
despite
his
being's
law,
Bade
through
the
deep
recesses
of
our
breast
The
unregarded
river
of
our
life
Pursue
with
indiscernible
flow
its
way;
And
that
we
should
not
see
The
buried
stream,
and
seem
to
be
Eddying
at
large
in
blind
uncertainty,
Though
driving
on
with
it
eternally.
But
often,
in
the
world's
most
crowded
streets,
But
often,
in
the
din
of
strife,
There
rises
an
unspeakable
desire
After
the
knowledge
of
our
buried
life;
A
thirst
to
spend
our
fire
and
restless
force
In
tracking
out
our
true,
original
course;
A
longing
to
inquire
Into
the
mystery
of
this
heart
which
beats
So
wild,
so
deep
in
us—to
know
Whence
our
lives
come
and
where
they
go.
And
many
a
man
in
his
own
breast
then
delves,
But
deep
enough,
alas!
none
ever
mines.
And
we
have
been
on
many
thousand
lines,
And
we
have
shown,
on
each,
spirit
and
power;
But
hardly
have
we,
for
one
little
hour,
Been
on
our
own
line,
have
we
been
ourselves—
Hardly
had
skill
to
utter
one
of
all
The
nameless
feelings
that
course
through
our
breast,
But
they
course
on
for
ever
unexpress'd.
And
long
we
try
in
vain
to
speak
and
act
Our
hidden
self,
and
what
we
say
and
do
Is
eloquent,
is
well—but
't#is
not
true!
And
then
we
will
no
more
be
rack'd
With
inward
striving,
and
demand
Of
all
the
thousand
nothings
of
the
hour
Their
stupefying
power;
Ah
yes,
and
they
benumb
us
at
our
call!
Yet
still,
from
time
to
time,
vague
and
forlorn,
From
the
soul's
subterranean
depth
upborne
As
from
an
infinitely
distant
land,
Come
airs,
and
floating
echoes,
and
convey
A
melancholy
into
all
our
day.
Only—but
this
is
rare—
When
a
belov{'e}d
hand
is
laid
in
ours,
When,
jaded
with
the
rush
and
glare
Of
the
interminable
hours,
Our
eyes
can
in
another's
eyes
read
clear,
When
our
world-deafen'd
ear
Is
by
the
tones
of
a
loved
voice
caress'd—
A
bolt
is
shot
back
somewhere
in
our
breast,
And
a
lost
pulse
of
feeling
stirs
again.
The
eye
sinks
inward,
and
the
heart
lies
plain,
And
what
we
mean,
we
say,
and
what
we
would,
we
know.
A
man
becomes
aware
of
his
life's
flow,
And
hears
its
winding
murmur;
and
he
sees
The
meadows
where
it
glides,
the
sun,
the
breeze.
And
there
arrives
a
lull
in
the
hot
race
Wherein
he
doth
for
ever
chase
That
flying
and
elusive
shadow,
rest.
An
air
of
coolness
plays
upon
his
face,
And
an
unwonted
calm
pervades
his
breast.
And
then
he
thinks
he
knows
The
hills
where
his
life
rose,
And
the
sea
where
it
goes.
