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Now heart whose voice I drown by day to hear in hours of waking,
Now eyes whose tears must burn the more because they may not flow,
From sight of face or sound of speech if I could bear your aching,
And bury it deep-hidden in the ferns of long ago!
But oh! the pensive little ghost among her visions sitting
Would view her weeping Future with so piteous surprise!
No, I must leave her in her nook to dream her dreams unwitting—
I could not take my trouble there, I could not meet her eyes.
Now eyes whose tears must burn the more because they may not flow,
From sight of face or sound of speech if I could bear your aching,
And bury it deep-hidden in the ferns of long ago!
But oh! the pensive little ghost among her visions sitting
Would view her weeping Future with so piteous surprise!
No, I must leave her in her nook to dream her dreams unwitting—
I could not take my trouble there, I could not meet her eyes.
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