Here you will find thePoemHappinessof poet 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.
