It seemeth strange, that flesh and blood
Should hold such ghostly, hellish things,
And also things supremely good,
Which might not shame an angel's wings.

Yet so it is, for ev'ry throb
That man's pulsating bosom gives,
And ev'ry smile, and ev'ry sob
Speaks of a mystery that lives.

There is a tale in ev'ry flow'r,
Which none may whisper, none may tell,
A secret thing in ev'ry bower,
Which ev'ry tenant hideth well.

There is a tale of joy and woe,
Round ev'ry hearth, in ev'ry land,
Which ne'er may ever further go,
Than round that humble, home-like band.

And shall we seek to draw the screen
Which hides the good, and eke the ill?
No, it is better far, I ween,
To let them keep in hiding still.

For unknown good is virtue still,
And virtue shows a richer bloom,
As violet, or daffodil,
When growing 'mid the grass or broom.