PEACE, my heart's blab, be ever dumb, Sorrows speak loud without a tongue: And, my perplexed thoughts, forbear To breathe yourselves in any ear: 'Tis scarce a true or manly grief, Which gads abroad to find relief. Was ever stomach that lack'd meat Nourish'd by what another eat? Can I bestow it, or will woe Forsake me, when I bid it go? Then I'll believe a wounded breast May heal by shrift, and purchase rest. But if, imparting it, I do Not ease myself, but trouble two, 'Tis better I alone possess My treasure of unhappiness: Engrossing that which is my own No longer than it is unknown. If silence be a kind of death, He kindles grief who gives it breath; But let it rak'd in embers lie, On thine own hearth 'twill quickly die; And spite of fate, that very womb Which carries it, shall prove its tomb. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE: 14. OVER THE COFFIN by THOMAS HARDY THE HAYLOFT by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE VOICE OF THE SEA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH LILIES OF WHITE by UNNUR BENEDIKTDOTTIR PSALMS 71. PRAYER AND SONG OF THE AGED CHRISTIAN by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |