So delicate my hands, and long,
They might have been my pride.
And there were those to make them song
Who for their touch had died.
Too frail to cup a heart within,
Too soft to hold the free-
How long these lovely hands have been
A bitterness to me!
- Dorothy Parker
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
- Thomas Hood