Page:Poems of Emma Lazarus vol 2.djvu/259

Rh What was this grief, this unknown ill, Which I have wept so bitterly ?

'T was but a common grief, well known of men. But, look you, when our heavy heart is sore. Fond wretches that we are ! we fancy then That sorrow never has been felt before.

There cannot be a common grief, Save that of common souls ; my friend, Speak out, and give thy heart relief. Of this grim secret make an end. Confide in me, and have no fear. The God of silence, pale, austere. Is younger brother unto death. Even as we mourn we 're comforted, And oft a single word is said Which from remorse delivereth.

If I were bound this day to tell my woe, I know not by what name to call my pain. Love, folly, pride, experience — neither know If one in all the world might thereby gain. Yet ne'ertheless I 'U voice the tale to thee. Alone here by the hearth. But do thou take This lyre — come nearer — so ; my memory Shall gently with the harmonies awake.