suppose you write your heart out till the world

sobs with one voice—what then?

small agonies that round your heart-strings curled

strung out for choice, that men

may pick a phrase, each for his own pet pain,

and thank the voice so come,

they being dumb. what then?

you have no sympathy? o endless claim!

no one that cares? what then?

suppose you had—the whole world knew your name

and your affairs, and men

ached with your headache, dreamed your dreadful dreams,

and, with your heart-break due,

their hearts broke too. what then?

you think that people do not understand?

you suffer? die? what then?

unhappy child, look here, on either hand,

look low or high,—all men

suffer and die, and keep it to themselves!

they die—they suffer sore—

you suffer more? what then?