Light griefs do speak, while sorrow's tongue is bound.
In all the silent manliness of grief.
Pale in her fading bowers the Summer stands, Like a new Niobe with claspèd hands, Silent above the flowers, her children lost, Slain by the arrows of the early Frost.
When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.
Digory never spoke on the way back, and the others were shy of speaking to him. He was very sad and he wasn't even sure all the time that he had done the right thing; but whenever he remembered the shining tears in Aslan's eyes he became sure.
Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
Silence in love betrays more woe - Than words though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, may challenge double pity.
Faded smiles oft linger in the face, While grief's first flakes fall silent on the heart!
So many miseries have craz'd my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.
Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.
Tearless grief bleeds inwardly.
The deepest rivers make least din, The silent soule doth most abound in care.
