Nay, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain--
Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured strain.
The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee,
Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be;
And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom throng,
Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song.
This is thy birth-day, dearest--the fairest of the year--
To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear;
The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with thee,
As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that
sets him free.
I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fills
My heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it thrills.
I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give,
Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live--
But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud,
Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.