When little leaves are leaning to the light, Tears are but spindrift, blown along the dark. Who hopes to hug his heart-break, has the night; But when the dawn spills silver, and the lark Spills music, and the languid lips of leaves Loosen to let out laughter, there is less Than shadow, even, of the thing that grieves, Skirting our lost horizon of distress. The heart, however faithful to its pain, Has found no armor to withstand the way Of each new morning coming back again, As though it were the world's initial day, Weighted with wonder woe cannot dismiss. Tears are but spindrift in the face of this. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIDDLING WOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MARION REEDY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS by MATTHEW ARNOLD BUDMOUTH DEARS by THOMAS HARDY SPRING NIGHT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN LONG AGO by CLARA EXLINE BOCKOVEN |