My soul is troubled with an ancient sorrow,
Which grows again anew; and gloomy themes,
Gathering afresh, o'erstadow me with dreams
Of a mysterious darkness on the morrow.
I fain would weep, and yet can find no tears—
Nought but the broken sigh and stifled groan:
These are the tenants of my heart alone,
And their deep underminings steal my years.
O that the tears, joy's freshening tears, would fall!
They come not to the weak and wounded breast;
They rush both for and from the fount of rest.
If thou art not than marble harder all,
Know that the silent pang, the grief that speaks not,
Is of all woes the deadliest—and to bear
The heart that throbs and burns, while yet it breaks not,
Is worse than death—for death a blessing were.