She can't be unhappy,' you said,'The smiles are like stars in her eyes,And her laugh is thistledownAround her low replies.''Is she unhappy?' you said–But who has ever knownAnother's heartbreak–All he can know is how own;And she seems hushed to me,As hushed as thoughHer heart were a hunter's fireSmothered in snow.
-Sara Teasdale
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