The human heart's a mystery,
That few can understand;
And all its trembling chords should be
Swept with a gentle hand.

For if we rudely strike the strings
Whence melody should flow,
A harsh, unnatural discord rings,
Of bitterness and woe.

We mingle with the joyous crowd,
Where all is bright and gay,
With music light, and laughter loud,
They pass the hours away.

How oft, amid such scenes, the heart
Is sad, we know not why;
And though a smile the lips may part,
A tear steals to the eye.

And then we quickly turn away
To hide the starting tear,
While the music of their laughter falls
Dirge-like upon the ear.

And we wonder why, when all around
Is song and revelry,
Their joyous mirthfulness should sound,
To us, so mournfully.

And yet, sometimes the simplest thing,
Such happiness affords,
It seems as though an angel's wing
Had swept the trembling chords.

The gushing music of the rill,
The whisp'ring of the breeze,
And the low and gentle rustling
Of the leaves upon the trees.

The sweet, sad sighing autumn winds,
As mournfully they blend,
Speak to the heart as if in words,
Of a departed friend.

And as we listen, breathlessly,
To the low, mysterious tone,
We deem some angel spirit
Is whisp'ring to our own.

But suddenly, a careless tone,
Or word in harshness spoken,
Recalls the wand'ring spirit home,
And the spell is rudely broken.

And then a sad, lone feeling steals
Upon the weary heart,
And amid the gloom we only feel
A longing to depart.

A longing to depart and be
Amid the angel choir,
Where perfect love and sympathy
Shall tune each heart and lyre.