132
A SHEAF GLEANED
This is the hour. The veil is rent
That hides my sorrows in the day;
Opens my heart. Night-flowers their scent
Thus open at the first star's ray.
O Night, Night lovely and profound!
Thou know'st if worthy be of faith,
The judgments rash with which men hound
A stricken hind that bleeds to death.
Thou know'st the secret of my life!
The courage gay to do and dare,
The seeming calmness hides no strife—
'Tis an acceptance of despair!
For thee, I am myself again,
No more hypocrisy or guile!
I live, I love, I suffer pain,
My sadness wears not e'en a smile.
No more the rose and lily crown!
My brow resumes its mourning wreath;
Weary my throbbing head hangs down,
Tumbles the pride assumed, beneath.
