The passion you forbade my lips to utter
Will not be silenced. You must hear it in
The sullen thunders, when they roll and mutter,
And when the tempest nears, with wail and din,
I know your calm forgetfulness is broken,
And to your heart you whisper,
"He has spoken."
All nature understands and sympathizes
With human passion. When the restless sea
Turns in its futile search for peace, and rises
To plead and to pursue, it speaks for me.
And with each desperate billow's anguish fretting
Your heart must tell you,
"He is not forgetting."
When unseen hands in lightning strokes are writing,
Mysterious words, upon a cloudy scroll,
Know that my pent-up passion is indicting
A cipher message for your listening soul.
And when the lawless winds rush by you shrieking,
Let your heart say,
"Now his despair is speaking."
Love comes, nor goes, at beck or call of reason;
Nor is Love silent, though it says no word.
By day or night, in any clime or season,
A dominating passion must be heard.
So shall you hear, through Junes and through Decembers,
The voice of Nature saying,
Poems of Progress and New Thought Pastels. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, W. B. Conkey Co. [c1909].
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