Who Sees the Panic

Frances Crawford

Who sees the panic unconfessed,
The lightning in the quiet breast?
Even the lovers, closely clasped,
Know distance in their dual past.

Each in the furnace is annealed.
Enameled lips and eyes are sealed.
Each calls aloud, but who can hear?
His cry turns only to his ear.

And can you understand my words?
At your approach they flee like birds,
Timid of man; and for your part,
You hear the voice and not the heart.