by Adeline Foster
The heart is like a honeycomb,
Each section having many rooms:
Faith, and love, and hope, and trust.
Some hearts were never made to stand
The pains that years of life will hand;
Yet bear that pain we must.
So in those rooms of honeycombs
There are many silent, sacred tombs
With locks that never rust.
Each searing pain will close a door,
And, though we walk on as before,
There is a little less of us.
And, sometimes in the evening's gloom,
We reach into some closed off room
And drag a skeleton from a shelf;
And, though we do not understand,
We turn it o'er as best we can,
And put it back to rest.