Page:Poems Denver.djvu/280

Yet though unseen, a voice is heard,
 Trembling with saddened sympathy,
Like vesper-hymn of some sweet bird,
 Mourning its long captivity.

So, from thy heart, young child of song,
 Thy feelings speak a truer tale
Than thou wouldst have to them belong;
 For still each echo is a wail.
Though soon by other ears forgot,
 Making no impress on the mind;
Unseen, unknown, unheard, unthought,
 They leave a world of griefs behind.

A longing for a thing unknown,
 A something that we cannot name;
Alone, yet not enough alone,
 An ice-like feeling and a flame;
A pause so breathless, deep, intense
 That hope dares not to break the spell;
A murmur ever calling hence,
 A hollow sound, a mute farewell.

These are the mourners of the heart,
 The dwellers on a deep, dead sea;
They look for those they saw depart,
 They wish for that which may not be—
To see the dead return again,
 With the glad promises they gave,
In whispers to the heart, in vain,
 At once their dupe—at once their grave!