Think Not that the Heart is Devoid of Emotion.

Think not that the heart is devoid of emotion,
    Because of a countenance rugged and stern,
The bosom may hide the most fervent devotion,
    As shadowy forests hide floweret and fern;
As the pearls which are down in the depths of the ocean,
    The heart may have treasures which few can discern.

Think not the heart barren, because no reflection
    Is flashed from the depths of its secret embrace;
External appearance may baffle detection,
    And yet the heart beat with an ethical grace:
The breast may be charged with the truest affection
    And never betray it by action or face.

Alfred Castner King

Alfred Castner King was an American poet. He is recognized for his significant contributions to American poetry. Despite battling with blindness, his disability did not deter him from crafting poetry that captivated many readers. King often wrote about nature and personal experiences, reflecting a deep appreciation for the world around him and the nuances of human emotion.

Alfred Castner King

The Spirit of freedom is Born of the Mountains.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Shall Our Memories Live When the Sod Rolls Above Us?

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Suggested by a Mountain Eagle.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Humanity's Stream.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Despair.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
    When vanishes each prospect fair,
When the last flickering ray has sped,
    And naught remains but mute despair;
When inky blackness doth enshroud
    The hopes the heart once held in store,
As some tall pine, by great winds bowed,
    Doth snap, and when the tempest's o'er,
Its noble form, magnificent and proud,
    Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more;
    Thus breaks the heart, which sees no hope before.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
    That heart is as some ruin old,
With ancient arch and wall, o'erspread
    With moss, and desolating mold;
Whose banquet halls, where once the sound
    Of revelry rang unconfined,
Now, with the hoot of owls resound,
    Or echo back the mournful w...

Alfred Castner King

The Buried Life

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved<...

Matthew Arnold

Hidden Sorrows.

For some the river of life would seem
    Free from the shallow, the reef, or bar,
As they gently glide down the silvery stream
    With scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar;
But under the surface, calm and fair,
    Lurk the hidden snags, and the secret care;
The waters are deepest where still, and clear,
And the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

For others, the pathway of life is strewn
    With many a thorn, for each rose or bud;
And their journey o'er mountain, o'er moor, and dune,
    Can be plainly tracked by footprints of blood;
But deeper still lies the hidden smart
    Of some secret sorrow, which gnaws the heart,
And rankles under a surface clear;
For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

But, when the journey's end we see,
    At the ba...

Alfred Castner King

The Buried Life

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness oer me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!    
But theres a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne;
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,    
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?        
I knew the mass of men conceald
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveald
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reprovd;
I knew they ...

Matthew Arnold

Deprive This Strange and Complex World.

Deprive this strange and complex world
    Of all the charms of art;
Deprive it of those sweeter joys
    Which music doth impart;
But oh, preserve that smile, which tells
    The secret of the heart!

The world may lose its massive piles
    Which point their spires above;
May spare the tuneful nightingale
    And gently cooing dove;
But woe betide it, if it lose
    The sentiment of love!

Alfred Castner King

I Think When I Stand in the Presence of Death.

I think when I stand in the presence of Death,
    How futile is earthy endeavor,
If it be, with the flight of the last labored breath,
    The tongue has been silenced forever.

For no message is flashed from the lustreless eyes,
    When clos-ed so languid and weary,
And no voice from the darkness re-echoes our cries,
    In response to the agonized query!

We gaze at the solemn mysterious shroud
    With a vague and insatiate yearning,
And perceive but the sombre exterior cloud,
    With our vision of no discerning.

Not a whispering sound, not a glimmer of light,
    From that shadowy strand uncertain;
But He who ordained the day and night,
    Framed also Death's silent curtain.

Alfred Castner King