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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419077" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Unhappy One</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">“HE is false to the heart!' she said, stern-lipped; 'he is all untruth; <br>He promises fair as a tree in blossom, and then <br>The fruit is rotten ere ripe. Tears, prayers and youth, <br>All withered and wasted! and still—I love this falsest of men!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Comfort? There is no comfort when the soul sees pain like a sun: <br>It is better to stare at the blinding truth: if it blind, one woe is done. <br>We cling to a coward hope, when hope has the seed of the pain: <br>If we tear out the roots of the grief, it will never torment again.<br>Ay, even if part of our life is lost, and the deep-laid nerves <br>That carry all joy to the heart are wounded or killed by the knife; <br>When a gangrene sinks to the bone, it is only half-death that serves; <br>And a life with a cureless pain is only half a life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But why unhealed must the spirit endure? There are drugs for the body's dole;<br>Have we wholly lived for the lower life? Is there never a balm for the soul?<br>O Night, cry out for the healer of woe, for the priest-physician cry,<br>With the pouring oil for the bleeding grief, for the life that may not die!<br>'He is false to the heart!' she moaned; 'and I love him and cannot hate!' <br>Then bitterly, fiercely —'What have I done, my God, for such a fate?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Poor heart!' said the Teacher; 'for thee and thy sorrow the daily parables speak.<br>Thy grief, that is dark, illumes for me a sign that was dim and weak.<br>In the heart of my garden I planted a tree —I had chosen the noblest shoot:<br>It was sheltered and tended, and hope reached out for the future's precious fruit.<br>The years of its youth flew past, and I looked on a spreading tree<br>All gloried with maiden blossoms, that smiled their promise to me.<br>I lingered to gaze on their color and shape—I knew I had chosen well;<br>And I smiled at the death that was promise of life as the beautiful petals fell.<br>But the joy was chilled, though the lip laughed on, by the withered proof to the eye:<br>The blossoms had shielded no tender bud, but cradled a barren lie.<br>Before me it lay, the mystery—the asking, the promise, the stone;<br>The tree that should give good fruit was bare—the cause unseen, unknown!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But I said: ' Next year it shall bourgeon, my part shall be faithfully done;<br>My love shall be doubled—I trust my tree for its beautiful strength alone.'<br>But tenderness failed, and loving care, and the chalice of faith was dried<br>When the next spring blossoms had spoken their promise smiled at the sun and lied;<br>The heart of the petals was withered to dust. Then, for duty, I trusted again;<br>For who should stand if God were to frown on the twice-told failures of men?<br>Unloving I tended, with care increased, but never a song or smile;<br>For duty is love that is dead but is kept from the grave for a while.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The third year came, with the sweet young leaves, and I could not fear or doubt; <br>But the petals smiled at the sun and lied,—and the curse in my blood leaped out! <br>'This corpse,' I cried, 'that has cumbered the earth, let it hence to the waste be torn!' <br>That moment of wrath beheld its death—while to me was a life-truth born: <br>The straight young trunk at my feet lay prone; and I bent to scan the core,<br>And there read the pitiful secret the noble sapling bore. <br>Through the heart of the pith, in its softest youth, it had bored its secret way, <br>A gnawing worm, a hideous grief,—and the life it had tortured lay <br>Accursed and lost for the cruel devil that nestled its breast within. <br>Ah, me, poor heart! had I known in time, I had cut out the clinging sin, <br>And saved the life that was all as good and as noble as it seemed!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He ceased, and she rose, the unresigned, as one who had slept and dreamed; <br>Her face was radiant with insight: 'It is true! it is true!' she said; <br>'And my love shall not die, like your beautiful tree, till the hidden pain is dead!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Boyle+O%27Reilly">John Boyle O'Reilly</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419077" data-title="The Unhappy One de John Boyle O'Reilly" data-description="“HE is false to the heart!' she said, stern-lipped; 'he is all untruth; 
He promises fair as a tree in blossom, and then 
The fruit is rotten ere ripe. Tears, prayers and youth, 
All withered and wasted! and still—I love this falsest of men!'
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