 | Plays and poems |  |
388
TO THE MEMORY OF S. S.
The world may think I lay this thing to heart:I do, indeed, and of my grief am proud;
Yet would not draw the wonder of the crowd,
Either to me, or to my rhyming art.
So I will lay thy sacred name apart
From other griefs that haunt me in the shroud;
And will not in affliction be too loud,
Lest men suspect my cunning gives the start
To these true tears. And if nor sigh, nor moan,
Nor cry of anguish, load my heavy line,
It is because this holy grief of mine
Is a dear treasure. I am jealous grown,
To share with men a thing I hold divine,
Making that common which is all my own.
| Plays and poems | |