Xxxi

So many, many things there are To which the keys are lacking; Deep silence answers all man’s knocks And foils his undertaking.

Thou human heart! There sorrows howl As wolves, by hunger driven, And yet that same heart, oh, my God! To love alone is given.

’Tis capable of so much love That man’s wit may be failing, And he may as the lonely dove In vain roam, ever wailing.