Hush! Hush! Let no sorrow be spoken!
Tho' it perish, no pity shall flout it.
Better to die heart-broken
Of love than to live without it!
THE YOUNG POET
I
When I am dead and buried, then
There will be mourning among men.
I hear one musing on my dust:
"How hard he fought to win his crust."
And one, "He was too sensitive
In this cold-wintered world to live."
Another, weeping, "Ah, how few
So gentle-hearted and so true."
"I saw him only once, and yet
I think I never shall forget
The strange, sad look in those young eyes,"
Another says, and then with wise
And solemn-shaking head—"No doubt
The hot heart burned that frail frame out."
II
Good friends, a discount on your grief!
A little present help were worth
More than a sorrow-stricken earth
When I am but a withered leaf.
An outstretched hand were better to me
Than your glib graveyard sympathy.
You need not pity and rhyme and paint me,
You need not weep for, and sigh for, and saint me
After you've starved me—driven me dead.
Friends! do you hear? What I want is bread!
