Classic Poem

The vase where this vervain is dying
Was cracked by a fan lightly swayed,
By a blow that was surely not trying,
And that scarcely a sound-tremor made.

But the seemingly harmless beginning
Has eaten the crystal each day
With progress invisible, winning
Round the glass its insidious way.

Drop by drop its fresh water is going,
Which the flowers revived and awoke;
The fissure is there, no one knowing:
So touch not the vase; it is broke.

Thus carelessness oft, when a lover's,
Wounds the heart, though it utter no cry;
Thus it breaks of itself, nor recovers,
And its flowers of sentiment die.

Its appearance, no doubt, is deceiving,
But it grieves o'er the one wounded spot,
While it feels itself secretly cleaving—
It is broke, it is broke, touch it not!