A heart too full

The heart so often must give up its day-defying dream its yearning for the brimming cup of rich, forbidden cream To take the skimmed, prosaic milk the world would daily pour; to fold away the flowing silk that carefree summer wore And wear instead the winter wool - however scratched the skin - silencing a heart too full of that which might have been. Poor heart, that now supposes it knows what is its due - its creams, its silks, its roses its passions burning through - Be comforted. You yet shall find the heart's own inner worth is greater far than all the mind can dream upon this earth.

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