What is this still, unspoken tear?
The steady stream which flows
And subtle pain bespeaks?
Why doth this tear restrain itself
In peaceful medley run
Like lost deer in ethereal wood
With a concern for none.
For sobbing sorrow rends the heart
But shallow pain it is
Compared to the transcendent soul
That releases pain in this.
A sea serene and peaceful is
Inside the deepest soul,
Yet a wound doth pierce a depth
That ever goes unknown
But somehow even in the strife
A smile could be won,
A natural love and tender touch
And all that could be prized
But a true and silent glance
At the deepest sea of soul
Portends the moans inside.
But why do deepest sorrows
Consist in only this?
While sobs proceed from shallow pricks
And from paper-cuts blood streams,
The stranger wound is one who lets
Solely the silence speak.
The depth of pain could be much more,
Or perhaps exist as less,
And the peace itself could think
That this sorrow is less.
But why does this tear speak so still
And stream so steadily?
For perhaps it knows all will be well,
And sees it’s Remedy.
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