Classic Poem

For days and weeks upon the lip has hung
A precious something for an absent ear;
Some tender confidence but lately sprung,
Some dear confession that but one must hear.

The heart repeats it over day by day,
And fancies how and when the words will fall;
What answering smile upon the face will play,
What tender light will linger over all.

But eager eyes that watch for one alone
May grow reluctant; for the open gate
Lets in, with him, perchance a guest unknown,
On whom slow words of courtesy must wait.

Or when the presence waited for has come,
It may be dull or cold, too sad or light:
A look that shows the heart away from home
Can often put the dearest words to flight.

Perhaps the time of meeting, or the form,
May chill or wither what we longed to say:
What fits the sunshine will not fit the storm, —
What blends with twilight, jars with noon of day.

Again, when all things seem our wish to serve,
Full opportunity may strike us dumb, —
May sink our precious thoughts in deep reserve,
And to the surface bid the lightest come.

And often ere our friend is out of sight,
We start: the thing can scarce be credited, —
We have been silent, or our words been trite,
And here's the dearest thing of all unsaid!