by Sara Teasdale
"She can't be unhappy," you said,
 "The smiles are like stars in her eyes,
And her laugh is thistledown
 Around her low replies."
"Is she unhappy?" you said —
 But who has ever known
Another's heartbreak —
 All he can know is his own;
And she seems hushed to me,
 As hushed as though
Her heart were a hunter's fire
 Smothered in snow.

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