When little leaves are leaning to the light, Tears are but spindrift, blown along the dark. Who hopes to hug his heart-break, has the night; But when the dawn spills silver, and the lark Spills music, and the languid lips of leaves Loosen to let out laughter, there is less Than shadow, even, of the thing that grieves, Skirting our lost horizon of distress. The heart, however faithful to its pain, Has found no armor to withstand the way Of each new morning coming back again, As though it were the world's initial day, Weighted with wonder woe cannot dismiss. Tears are but spindrift in the face of this. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ACHIEVEMENT'S SILVER CRY by MARGARETE ROSE AKIN THE VALLEY OF FERN: PART 1 by BERNARD BARTON WHITE GRASS by ADA BAZZACCHINI ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD by ROBERT BURNS FRAGMENT WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH by GEORGE GORDON BYRON MASQUE AT THE MARRIAGE OF THE LORD HAYES: TO JAMES KING OF BRITAIN by THOMAS CAMPION |