Lines in Pleasant Places Rhythmics of many moods and quantities. Wise and otherwise |
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DEBILITY OF THE HEART. |
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 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
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DEBILITY OF THE HEART.
[_]
[In the case of a poor woman found dead in South Street Court, Boston, the coroner's jury returned the verdict, “Died from debility of the heart.”]
Dying, dying, every day,
In hidden place and by the way:
Where Pleasure's giddy votaries throng,
Where Misery applies its thong,
Where smiles light up the speaking face,
Where Fortune yields its richest grace,
Debility of heart has sway:
Dying, dying, every day!
In hidden place and by the way:
Where Pleasure's giddy votaries throng,
Where Misery applies its thong,
Where smiles light up the speaking face,
Where Fortune yields its richest grace,
Debility of heart has sway:
Dying, dying, every day!
O, who may know the pangs that wait
On human hearts disconsolate!—
Unyielding, unremitting pain,
That tears may strive to drown in vain;
Hope all crushed out, the feelings lone,
Life but an incubus of stone;
No lift to clouds of drear dismay:
Dying, dying, every day!
On human hearts disconsolate!—
Unyielding, unremitting pain,
That tears may strive to drown in vain;
Hope all crushed out, the feelings lone,
Life but an incubus of stone;
No lift to clouds of drear dismay:
Dying, dying, every day!
Hidden the barb that gives the wound,
No eye may pierce the deep profound
To where the cankering spirit lies,
Concealed 'neath insincerities;
Feigning that it cannot feel
Beneath the rack's tormenting wheel;
Fretting its very life away—
Dying, dying, every day!
No eye may pierce the deep profound
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Concealed 'neath insincerities;
Feigning that it cannot feel
Beneath the rack's tormenting wheel;
Fretting its very life away—
Dying, dying, every day!
How many hands are stilly pressed
Upon the aching, wounded breast!
Unvoiced the bitterness that reigns,
No solace for abiding pains,
Which, banked below, must yield no trace
To show in sorrow on the face;
And thus, though seeming calm and gay,
Dying, dying, every day!
Upon the aching, wounded breast!
Unvoiced the bitterness that reigns,
No solace for abiding pains,
Which, banked below, must yield no trace
To show in sorrow on the face;
And thus, though seeming calm and gay,
Dying, dying, every day!
“Debility of heart!” God knows
The depth and breadth of human woes,
Though mortal eyes may never see
The secret springs of misery.
And may God help the ones who feel
The pangs of Grief's envenomed steel,
From which, whatever cause it may,
The poor and rich die every day.
The depth and breadth of human woes,
Though mortal eyes may never see
The secret springs of misery.
And may God help the ones who feel
The pangs of Grief's envenomed steel,
From which, whatever cause it may,
The poor and rich die every day.
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |