Missed.
By Alfred Castner King
Pity the child who never feels
A mother's fond caress;
That childish smile a void conceals
Of aching loneliness.
Pity the heart which loves in vain,
What balm or mystic spell
Can soothe that bosom's secret pain,
The pain it may not tell?
Pity those missed by Cupid's darts,
For 'twas ordained for such,
Who love at random, but whose hearts
Feel no responsive touch.