Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,
In the heart that’s dumb with grief
There is eloquence, and mournful,
That doth shame all tear-relief.
From the heart of silent sorrow,
Clouds of woe can never rise,
And dissolve themselves with raining
To congeal in weeping eyes.
Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,
And the soul may burst with grief;