She is as heavy as so much sand;
She moves about like a moon, a mist.
Only her heart? Have you felt her hand?
Are fingers missing? Is it limp at the wrist?

Only her heart? How do you know
But what there is rattling in her head?
Only her heart? If that is so
Why such a looseness in her tread?

She comes, and you think a shape of air
Has entered the place; she goes away
And you know that little of her was there.
Yet it is only her heart you say?

You say that delicate flesh may ache
And blue veins throb and temples smart,
And yet, for trouble's intricate sake,
Nothing will splinter except the heart?