A Singer by William Allingham

That which he did not feel, he would not sing; 

What most he felt, religion it was to hide 

In a dumb darkling grotto, where the spring 

Of tremulous tears, arising unespied, 

Became a holy well that durst not glide 

Into the day with moil or murmuring; 

Whereto, as if to some unlawful thing, 

He sto]e, musing or praying at its side. 

But in the sun he sang with cheerful heart, 

Of coloured season and the whirling sphere, 

Warm household habitude and human mirth, 

The whole faith-blooded mystery of earth; 

And I, who had his secret, still could hear 

The grotto's whisper low through every part.