O weary heart of mine,
Keep still, and make no sign!
The world hath learned a newer joy-
A sweeter song than thine!
Tho' all the brooks of June
Should lilt and pipe in tune.
The music by and by would cloy-
The world forgets so soon!

So thou mayest put away
Thy little broken lay;
Perhaps some wistful, loving soul
May take it up some day-
Take up the broken thread,
Dear heart, when thou art dead,
And weave into diviner song
The things thou wouldst have said!

Rest thou, and make no sign,
The world, O, heart of mine,
Is listening for the hand that smites
A grander chord than thine!
The loftier strains that teach
Great truths beyond thy reach;
Whose far faint echo they have heard
In thy poor stammering speech.

Thy little broken bars,
That wailing discord mars,
To vast triumphal harmonies
Shall swell beyond the stars.
So rest thee, heart, and cease;
Awhile, in glad release,
Keep silence here, with God, amid
The lilies of His peace.