Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/Her Simile

by Sarah Piatt

HER SIMILE.

If you should see a statue, one
 Whose marble name was Silence, sit alone,
Whiter than Death and sadder, in the sun,
 With stony finger pressed to lips of stone;

If from those lips, themselves so still,
 A fountain's waters restlessly should start,
And make a little troubled murmur, till
 They all were dry: this would be like my heart.