WORDS.
There never was spoken, in earnest or jest,
A word, but its meaning was deeply imprest
On a heart whose emotions for ever will beat
With that wild thrill of feeling Time cannot defeat.
A word, but its meaning was deeply imprest
On a heart whose emotions for ever will beat
With that wild thrill of feeling Time cannot defeat.
No word of reproach can pass over that mind,
But there lingers the trace of its torture behind;
And the cold icy look, where affection should dwell,
Oh! this is an anguish the lip cannot tell.
But there lingers the trace of its torture behind;
And the cold icy look, where affection should dwell,
Oh! this is an anguish the lip cannot tell.
To live on for ever, and know not a voice
That will echo with rapture thine own heart's rejoice—
To grieve on in sorrow and silence alone,
Is to live the keen martyr of feelings unknown.
That will echo with rapture thine own heart's rejoice—
To grieve on in sorrow and silence alone,
Is to live the keen martyr of feelings unknown.
Oh! hard is the fate of the sensitive soul,
And harder the refuge of mental control—
To tame the deep passions, and ice o'er the heart,
Till it bear the impression of life's chilly art.
And harder the refuge of mental control—
To tame the deep passions, and ice o'er the heart,
Till it bear the impression of life's chilly art.
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