OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. The Voiceless. E count the broken lyres that rest WE Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy fame is proud to win them; Alas for those who never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story; O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, O hearts that break and give no sign OLIVER W. HOLMES. |