The Apostrophe

Marie Van Vorst (1867–1936)

Go, unsaid thought, wordless and songless both!With fluttering pinions, still unseen, unsought,Circle the spirit's white flame like a moth—Go—unsaid thought!

Go to the one by whom my soul is taught;Go—wing your joyous journey, nothing lothLike sunbeams in the hearts of lilies caught.

Like perfume that eludes, yet lingereth;—Until your subtle mission 's fully wrought—To charm, as a dear dream's pale image doth,—Go—unsaid thought!