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Poem by Edith Wharton


THIS perfect love can find no words to say.
What words are left, still sacred for our use,
That have not suffered the sad world's abuse,
And figure forth a gladness dimmed and gray?
Let us be silent still, since words convey
But shadowed images, wherein we lose
The fulness of love's light; our lips refuse
The fluent commonplace of yesterday.

Then shall we hear beneath the brooding wing
Of silence what abiding voices sleep,
The primal notes of nature, that outring
Man's little noises, warble he or weep,
The song the morning stars together sing,
The sound of deep that calleth unto deep.

Edith Wharton

Edith Wharton's other poems:
  1. Chartres
  2. With the Tide
  3. The Parting Day
  4. Mould and Vase
  5. Song (Come, for the leaf is alight)

Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Alan Milne Happiness ("John had")
  • Amy Lowell Happiness ("Happiness, to some, elation")
  • Ella Wilcox Happiness ("There are so many little things which make life beautiful")

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