for whom These tears drip through my hands

Heart, do not bruise the breast 

That sheltered you so long: 

Beat quietly, strange guest. 

 

Or have I done you wrong 

To feed you life so fast? 

Why, no; digest this food 

And thrive. You could outlast 

Discomfort if you would. 

 

You do not know for whom 

These tears drip through my hands. 

You thud in the bright room 

Darkly. This pain demands 

No action on your part, 

Who never saw that face. 

 

[Edna St. Vincent Millay {1892-1950} 'Heart, do not bruise the breast']