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Oliver Wendell Holmes - The Voiceless
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WE count the broken lyres that rest
          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 that 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,—
          Weep for the voiceless, who have known
          The cross without the crown of glory!
          Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
          O`er Sappho`s memory-haunted billow,
          But where the glistening night-dews weep
          On nameless sorrow`s churchyard pillow.

          O hearts that break and give no sign
          Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
          Till Death pours out his longed-for wine
          Slow-dropped from Misery`s crushing presses,—
          If singing breath or echoing chord
          To every hidden pang were given,
          What endless melodies were poured,
          As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
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