Some hearts prevail by action; some have skill,
With tone, phrase, look and gesture to subdue
The wondering listeners, and their faith unmew
Within the compass of a single will.
Each has his own expression. I show ill,
And stumble sadly, when I strive to do;
And though my soul be riven through and through
With joy or sorrow, I must yet be still,
Unless a little from the crowd I steal
To muse alone, until my fancies pressed
Into song's rounded shape. I deeply feel
That lays like mine hide more than they reveal:
But take them, Love,--poor offerings, though my best.