A sorrowful something that looks from his face;

Though it shadows his brow as a raincloud the sky,

Look on it and wonder—don’t question him why.

If he steal from your side when the twilight descends,

And wander away from old comrades and friends,

To rest unobserved in some shady retreat,

Where the past and the present seem always to meet,

Don’t follow him there; let the stars overhead

Their better and holier sympathy shed—

And should an old love-light illumine his eye,

Though you bask in its splendor—don’t question him why.

For, out of the past that is shrouded away,

Looks a face omnipresent, unseen by the day.

A face like no other—a face in the sky

To be looked at and worshipped, but not questioned why.

Should his lips meet your own with an indifferent grace

That hurries the bloom to your averted face,

Though Doubt is a sentinel stationed near by,

Beware of his bayonet—don’t question why.

You may ask if you choose as he moves through the dance,

If ’tis Beauty or Passion that cowers his glance,

But question him not, O! ask him not why

There awoke in his bosom that deep-seated sigh.

Should he turn from the ball-room sometime with disgust

And shake from his sandals its memory and dust,

To bare a sick heart with its fevers of sin,

Beg heaven to filter a dewdrop within,

But question him not, for a word like a spark

Would quicken the pulses reduced by the dark;

Leave, leave him alone with his sorrow and God,

And let Silence spread o’er his heart’s grave the sod.