ISSUE: Winter 1945
Being very proud, and secret, much alone,
Private by choice, and quiet, and austere,
The passionate heart within its room of bone,
Is secret, still, for even the most near—
Is private, still, and lonely, and stern-willed;
Never the casual passer in the street Hears aught of joys wherewith the room is filled,
Or the heart’s moan, or love gone singing sweet.
Not in the intimate night, the one beside,
Touch-close and dear and sleeping, it may be,
Knows aught of what the heart endures in pride.
And even there, in secret, quietly,
So very quietly, the heart will break,
The lovely head beside will not awake.
