Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 228

​
CCXXVIII
That this should be the common grief of all, I dare not think it. No, to me alone This grief is known,Only on me the burning arrows fall.
The strong gods know that I have strength to hide The greatest of their gifts, the power to grieve, In silence; and in silence I receiveTheir last reward; in silence I abide.
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.