By Sara Teasdale

“She can’t be unhappy,” you said,
“The smiles are like stars in her eyes,
And her laughter is thistledown
Around her low replies.”
“Is she unhappy?” you said–
But who has ever known
Another’s heartbreak–
All he can know is his own;
And she seems hushed to me,
As hushed as though
Her heart were a hunter’s fire
Smothered in snow.

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