The Secret

We sigh not, and the eye’s not moisten’d,
We laugh at times, we often smile;
In not a look, in not a gesture
The secret comes to light the while.

Deep in our bleeding spirit hidden,
It lies in silent misery;
If in our wild heart it finds language,
The mouth’s still closed convulsively.

Ask of the suckling in the cradle,
Ask of the dead man in the grave;
They may perchance disclose the secret
To which I never utt’rance gave.