Poems (Curwen)/A Fragment

For works with similar titles, see A Fragment.

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A Fragment.
Wrung from an aching heart,  Coined in a weary brain, Were the words I wrote with simple art  With the quivering pen of pain.
But the words, my poor plain words,  With sympathy were rife, And they fell and soothed the trembling chords Of a heart, and blest a life.
And my own tears fell like rain,  And the ache went from my breast—For in trying to ease another's pain  My own sad heart was blest.
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