 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
LOVE UNEXPRESSED.
The sweetest notes among the human heart-strings
Are dull with rust;
The sweetest chords, adjusted by the angels,
Are clogged with dust;
We pipe and pipe again our dreary music
Upon the self-same strains,
While sounds of crime, and fear, and desolation,
Come back in sad refrains.
Are dull with rust;
The sweetest chords, adjusted by the angels,
Are clogged with dust;
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Upon the self-same strains,
While sounds of crime, and fear, and desolation,
Come back in sad refrains.
On through the world we go, an army marching
With listening ears,
Each longing, sighing, for the heavenly music
He never hears;
Each longing, sighing, for a word of comfort,
A word of tender praise,
A word of love, to cheer the endless journey
Of earth's hard, busy days.
With listening ears,
Each longing, sighing, for the heavenly music
He never hears;
Each longing, sighing, for a word of comfort,
A word of tender praise,
A word of love, to cheer the endless journey
Of earth's hard, busy days.
They love us, and we know it; this suffices
For reason's share.
Why should they pause to give that love expression
With gentle care?
Why should they pause? But still our hearts are aching
With all the gnawing pain
Of hungry love that longs to hear the music,
And longs and longs in vain.
For reason's share.
Why should they pause to give that love expression
With gentle care?
Why should they pause? But still our hearts are aching
With all the gnawing pain
Of hungry love that longs to hear the music,
And longs and longs in vain.
We love them and they know it; if we falter
With fingers numb,
Among the unused strings of love's expression,
The notes are dumb.
We shrink within ourselves in voiceless sorrow,
Leaving the words unsaid,
And, side by side with those we love the dearest,
In silence, on we tread.
With fingers numb,
Among the unused strings of love's expression,
The notes are dumb.
We shrink within ourselves in voiceless sorrow,
Leaving the words unsaid,
And, side by side with those we love the dearest,
In silence, on we tread.
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Thus on we tread, and thus each heart in silence
Its fate fulfils,
Hoping the music waiteth where are shining
The Distant Hills;
The only difference of the love in heaven
From love on earth below
Is: Here we love and know not how to tell it,
And there we all shall know!
Its fate fulfils,
Hoping the music waiteth where are shining
The Distant Hills;
The only difference of the love in heaven
From love on earth below
Is: Here we love and know not how to tell it,
And there we all shall know!
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |