What know they of the world to-day,
Of hearts that are silently breaking;
Of the human breast, and its great unrest,
And its pitiless aching, aching?

They send me out into Nature's heart
For help to bear my sorrow,
Nothing of strength can she impart,
No peace from her can I borrow.
Her rose-red June and her billing tune,
Her birds and blossoms only,
Mocked at the grief that seeks relief,
And leave me lonely--lonely.
If I might stand on the treacherous sand,
And know I was sinking, sinking,
While the moaning sea sang a dirge for me,--
Why, that were comfort, I'm thinking.



IT DOES NOT MATTER



It does not matter very much to me
Through what strange ways my pathway now may lead;
Since I know that it runs away from thee,
I give it little heed.

It does not matter if in calm or strife,