Classic Poem

There is a narrow cheerless cell
Silent and sad, and cold and deep,
A living grave, which yet full well
Can its dark dreadful secrets keep.

A whited sepulchre — it seems
Goodly enough in outward shew,
And he who marks it, seldom deems,
How much corruption lurks below.

But yet though fair and bright above,
Beneath, the worm hath left her slime,
O'er withered Hope, and ruined love,
Corroding grief and festering crime.

A prison-house — whose tortures shun
The light, yet rend the soul like steel,
A horrid mystery, which none
Can quite suppress, nor quite reveal;

It is the dungeon of despair,
At half its feelings heaven might start,
It's very thoughts would taint the air,
It is, it is — The Human Heart!