What was this grief, this unknown ill,
Which I have wept so bitterly ?
POET.
'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.
MUSE.
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.
POET.
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.
