There is a language of the soul 
More powerful than all uttered speech
      And there’s no mortal on the earth 
      Of high or yet lowly birth, 
Who finds it out of reach.

Not that all spoken words are vain, 
But oft we do not need their seal. 
      Weak words are not the only way 
      In which we fashion and convey
The things we think and feel. 
The trembling hand, the tell-tale eye, 
And rosy ting of cheek aflame.
      Speak louder than the loudest word
      That we poor mortals ever heard,
Or that we chanced to frame.

And in the soul’s sublimest mode, 
When love meets love in rapturous bliss,
      ’Tis then that silence is supreme, 
      And kisses fitly crown esteem,
While words would be amiss.