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51
TEARS.
“To them 'tis a relief—to us a torture.”
—Don Juan.
—Don Juan.
The tears of Woman flow from sorrow's source,
As mildly as the softest rains from heaven,
Which steal so gently downward, and distil
Continued drops so fine, you scarce can hear
Them meet the shrubs, and not a rose-leaf falls,
Though faded, at their downy touch; but soon,
Beneath their influence bland, all Nature breathes
Fresh sweetness more delightful;—not so Man's
When pride, even pride, fails to restrain the tears,
And choking torture will not be repressed,
The big drops fall, though stifled half, yet wrung
From bitter agony,—though few, yet fierce
And heavy;—like the firstlings of the storm,
Dashed savagely from forth the muttering gloom,
That blackly scowls above! Woman's seem given
But to add sweetness to the after-smile,
As to the clearing beam the gentle rains;—
Man's are the dark announcers of the war,
The elemental war of pride and passion,
Raging with deep and bitter gloom within,
Like lightning in the bosom of the cloud.
April, 1830.
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