Afterthought
by Leonard Bernstein

The lost one: the lost-in-love one never can die.
The childheart: the bleeding childheart never can be dry.
The heart’s child: the wide-eyed heart’s child never will cry.
The love unspoken cannot be a lie!
(Softer, be softer, my song.)

We build our own imprisonment
In the sealed-up oaks of fear:
We crouch in the old, old trunks:
Benumbed by threats of dispossession:
And though we may send up a timid leaf, a tender bough,
We rise too late to greet our unknown loves.