Happiness

by Edith Wharton

　　What words are left, still sacred for our use,

　　That have not suffered the sad world's abuse,

　　And figure forth a gladness dimmed and gray?

　　Let us be silent still, since words convey

　　But shadowed images, wherein we lose

　　The fulness of love's light; our lips refuse

　　The fluent commonplace of yesterday.

　　Then shall we hear beneath the brooding wing

　　Of silence what abiding voices sleep,

　　The primal notes of nature, that outring

　　Man's little noises, warble he or weep,

　　The song the morning stars together sing,

　　The sound of deep that calleth unto deep.