Unuttered Thoughts

Have I not bared my soul, O love, to thee.
And told thee of the things that sorrow said.
When joy went out from life, and hope was dead?
I would that this life's song of mine should be
A song to cleave unto thy memory.
I have not made my soul a peaceful bed.
The worms of sin upon its dust are fed,
And hell makes mirth at its mortality.

I have not spared to cloud thy heart with dole;
But in my breast strange secret thoughts there lie
Whereof no song of mine shall testify.
Then by the song and silence of my soul.
The thoughts that live and pass without a cry,
Know thou of this, my love, the very whole.