Classic Poem

We sigh not, but, serene and tearless,
We often smile — yea, laugh aloud;
No woful glance betrays the secret
That silence will for ever shroud.

Although its dumb and hidden torture
Within our bleeding soul lies deep:
Though in our stormy heart it clamours:
The pain-drawn lips their counsel keep.

Go, ask the suckling in the cradle;
Go, ask the dead men i' the mould.
Perchance from them you may discover
The secret I have never told.