  Ay—far in the feeling heart Cast the unkind word till it smiteth, Till deep in the flesh like a poisoned dart It stingeth—and ruthlessly biteth! What need that the blood In a crimson flood Flow fast from the throbbing veins— What need—if a sob Or the heart's wild throb Betoken the horrible pains? The tears are forced from the mournful eyes As the angry word proceedeth; Little it cares for the stifled sighs, Little recks if the sad heart bleedeth;— But onward it goes While the life-blood flows Fast—fast on its terrible path; It laughs at the moan, And the low subdued groan, As it cuts so deep in its wrath. But soft on its track, And calling it back, Soothing the wound it has made, A Spirit of Love Comes down from above, In heavenly beauty arrayed— An angel of peace Who bids the tears cease, And stops the red life-blood's flow, And the poisoned dart Draws out of the heart, That dart that had torn it so, And heals o'er the skin— But look then within, There still is a scar below! |
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