Heart
 
The heart has its head on its own palm,
The face of the heart is veiled;
The heart's hands are bound with iron chains,
The feet of the heart are nailed.
 
The eyes of the heart are never dry,
The heart speaks only through tears.
The ears of the heart are so keen
That the voice from a distance it hears.
 
The voice of the heart is silent,
Yet far-reaching is heart's cry.
The heart has no question nor answer,
The heart is expressed in a sigh.
 
The ways of the heart are mysterious,
The heart has the mind of a child.
The heart's breath is full of tenderness,
The heart's expression is mild.
 
The ideal alone is heart's deity,
A constant yearning its life.
The heart's not concerned with life or death,
The heart stands firm through all strife.
 
Beauty is heart's only object,
Its inspirer, its all.
The heart is all power that there is,
The angels attend its call.
 
The heart is itself its own medicine,
The heart all its own wounds heals.
And none can ever imagine
The pain that the loving heart feels.
 
The path of the heart is thorny,
But leads in the end to bliss.
Hope is the staff the heart holds in hand,
And the goal heart shall not miss.