HELENIA 
Tears. 
They say I’m just like thee, child; 
I grieve to hear them so, 
For thou art glad and free, child, 
While I am worn with woe. 
They say I’m just like thee, love— 
Alas! they cannot know, 
Who mark my smiles of glee, love, 
The source from whence they flow. 
A pride I would not alter, 
Forbids me to reveal, 
Howe’er my soul may falter 
The wretchedness I feel. 
And so with idle laughter 
I while away the hours, 
And weep in secret after 
O’er memory’s buried flowers. 
They say I’m all too wild, love, 
They chide my reckless joy; 
They call me but a child, love, 
That plays with every toy. 
“A child!” they little know, love, 
The woman-woes I’ve proved; 
“Too wild!” ’tis but to show, love, 
A soul by grief unmoved. 
And so with seeming laughter 
I while away the hours, 
And weep a moment after 
O’er memory’s buried flowers! 
Yet I was once like thee, sweet; 
A singing bird in spring, 
My spirit fluttered free, sweet, 
On light and sportive wing; 
