Heart-Breathings

And must we thus bear on, thus give to prideA mastery not its own; wear a bright browWreathed with cold smiles that come not from the heart,And clothe our thoughts in language of the mind,While the soul lies a writhing, moaning thing,Beneath this calm exterior? Oh! mustA thousand gushing impulses be crushed,Ground by the heel of pride, that lifts its browWith a false garnish—as the ivy givesFreshness to what is fallen in decay,While the heart perishes?O for the privilege which the world grants not,To be but what we are! True, there may passOver our hearts a devastating fire,A scorching blast to lay them desolate;But from the ashes of the past may springA stronger blossom, with a deeper glow,"Than tinged its earliest flower."

The glancing streams,That play through all our hearts impulsively,May find a deep, broad channel, where their flow,Thenceforward will be silent, low, and strong;But oh, must it be hidden? Then give backThe storm and lightning—let the tempest howl—It were far easier than this, to bearThe constant wearing of the heart away!