Page:Hand in hand; (IA handinhand00kipl).pdf/42



WILL not tell you which I love the best Of all your sonnets, for in telling this I should tell more, and all would be confessed, That I so long have hidden in my breast, My soul’s sad secret, my heart’s poisoned bliss. Nor will I whisper, though you bend your cur To catch my murmured word; yet fearing lest This silence seem ungrateful, you shall hear That one there is that with regretful pain, As of a memory wakened from its sleep, Filled both mine eyes with tears, and once again I wept, who for so long have ceased to weep. Take back the book, I am grown calm and sage, There is no tell-tale tear-drop on the page.