When thou art happy, thou dear heart of pleasure, <br />Because men love thee and the feasts are spread, <br />And Fortune in thy lap has poured her treasure, <br />And Spring is there and roses crown thy head, <br />Then think of one who loved thee for his woe, <br />And, if thou sigh <br />With others by, <br />They shall not know. <br /> <br />When thou art silent in thy day of trouble, <br />Because fools vex and thou hast rivals found <br />And love has played thee falser than a bubble <br />And memory stings and grief is as a wound, <br />Then think of one whose hand first soothed thy brow, <br />And, if a smile <br />Thy tears beguile, <br />These shall not know. <br /> <br />When all is ended, thou pale ghost of sorrow, <br />And time's last flower is gathered from the grove, <br />And yesterday to thee is as to--morrow <br />And there is none to speak to thee of love, <br />Then sing these songs one made thee long ago, <br />And men shall swear <br />Thou still art fair-- <br />Yet shall not know.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/they-shall-not-know/
