NOT her own sorrow only that hath place <br />Upon yon gentle face. <br />Too slight have been her childhood's years to gain <br />The imprint of such pain. <br />It hid behind her laughing hours, and wrought <br />Each curve in saddest thought <br />On brow and lips and eyes. With subtle art <br />It made that little heart <br />Through its young joyous beatings to prepare <br />A quiet shelter there, <br />Where the immortal sorrows might find a home. <br />And many there have come; <br />Bowed in a mournful mist of golden hair <br />Deirdre hath entered there. <br />And shrouded in a fall of pitying dew, <br />Weeping the friend he slew, <br />The Hound of Ulla lies, with those who shed <br />Tears for the Wild Geese fled. <br />And all the lovers on whom fate had warred <br />Cutting the silver cord <br />Enter, and softly breath by breath they mould <br />The young heart to the old, <br />The old protest, the old pity, whose power <br />Are gathering to the hour <br />When their knit silence shall be mightier far <br />Than leagued empires are. <br />And dreaming of the sorrow on this face <br />We grow of lordlier race, <br />Could shake the rooted rampart of the hills <br />To shield her from all ills, <br />And through a deep adoring pity won <br />Grow what we dream upon.<br /><br />George William Russell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-irish-face/
