THIS perfect love can find no words to say. <br />What words are left, still sacred for our use, <br />That have not suffered the sad world's abuse, <br />And figure forth a gladness dimmed and gray? <br />Let us be silent still, since words convey <br />But shadowed images, wherein we lose <br />The fulness of love's light; our lips refuse <br />The fluent commonplace of yesterday. <br /> <br /> <br />Then shall we hear beneath the brooding wing <br />Of silence what abiding voices sleep, <br />The primal notes of nature, that outring <br />Man's little noises, warble he or weep, <br />The song the morning stars together sing, <br />The sound of deep that calleth unto deep.<br /><br />Edith Wharton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/happiness-244/
