CCCXCVI HOLD NOT THY PEACE AT MY TEARS

What is the saddest sweetest lowest sound

Nearest akin to perfect silence? Not

The delicate whisper sometimes in the hot

Autumnal morning heard the cornfields round;

Nor yet to lonely man, now almost bound

By slumber, near his house a murmuring river

Buzzing and droning o'er the stones for ever.

Not such faint voice of Autumn oat-encrown'd,

And not such liquid murmur, O my heart!

But tears that drop o'er graves, and sins, and fears,

A sound the very weeper scarcely hears,

A music in which silence hath some part.

-- O Thou, all gentle, Who all-hearing art,

Hold not Thy peace, sweet Saviour, at my tears!