Poems (Procter)/Unexpressed
For works with similar titles, see Unexpressed.
UNEXPRESSED.
WELLS within the soul of every ArtistMore than all his effort can express;And he knows the best remains unuttered;Sighing at what we call his success.Vainly he may strive; he dare not tell usAll the sacred mysteries of the skies:Vainly he may strive, the deepest beautyCannot be unveiled to mortal eyes.
And the more devoutly that he listens,And the holier message that is sent,Still the more his soul must struggle vainly,Bowed beneath a noble discontent.
No great Thinker ever lived and taught youAll the wonder that his soul received;No true Painter ever set on canvasAll the glorious vision he conceived.
No Musician ever held your spiritCharmed and bound in his melodious chains,But be sure he heard, and strove to render,Feeble echoes of celestial strains.
No real Poet ever wove in numbersAll his dream; but the diviner part,Hidden from all the world, spake to him onlyIn the voiceless silence of his heart.
So with Love: for Love and Art unitedAre twin mysteries; different, yet the same:Poor indeed would be the love of anyWho could find its full and perfect name.
Love may strive, but vain is the endeavorAll its boundless riches to unfold;Still its tenderest, truest secret lingersEver in its deepest depths untold.
Things of Time have voices: speak and perish.Art and Love speak; but their words must beLike sighings of illimitable forests,And waves of an unfathomable sea.