MY dear, that crying in the heart,
When the summer's done,
Hide it away, hide it apart,
That none can hear it, none!
If the wind and the owl and the cold raindrops
Heard that crying that never stops,
The crying of the daughters of men,
They too would be silent — and what then?
All would be silent then again!
Silent the bird of woe —
Silent the wind — silent the strain
Of the rain-drops dropping slow.
All would be silent and with one sigh
A silent world would float on the sky.
Worlds such as these, made of silent tears,
They call the music of the spheres!