Classic Poem

If they knew, the tiny flowers,
How bleeds my wounded heart,
Their tears would mingle in showers
With mine, to heal the smart.

And if the nightingales knew it,
How sad and sick is my soul,
They would burst into song to renew it,
And make my spirit whole.

To the golden stars were it given
To know of my sorrow and pain,
They would quit their lofty Heaven
To bid me take heart again.

How should these know it, I wonder!
One only knows my smart;
It is she who herself rent asunder,
Rent asunder my heart.