The Voiceless
WE count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them:— Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,— Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his longed-for wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,— If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Other author posts
Evening By a Tailor
Day hath put on his jacket, and His burning bosom buttoned it with stars Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs,
My Aviary
GH my north window, in the wintry weather,—My airy oriel on the river shore,—I watch the sea-fowl as they flock Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen, Lets the loose water waft...
The Living Temple
OT in the world of light alone, Where God has built his blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below, With belted seas that come and go, And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen: Look in upon thy wondrous frame,— Eternal wi...
The Opening of the Piano
IN the little southern parlor of tbe house you may have seen With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right, Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night<br ...
