Sonnet Clxxxiii: Poem by George Henry Boker

I know that every note and chord of woe
Sob in these lines; and you who have not borne
My woeful heart, may turn with natural scorn
From what you look on as a wordy show.
What is there, say you, in his fate to know,
That makes this mourner's history more forlorn
Than his who perished, gashed and bullet-torn
Just as the southern rose began to blow?
I do not ask you to divide my care;
Smile at the cross upon my mural stone;
Its dreadful record is for me alone.
But do not trespass. In God's name beware
Lest prying fingers lay my secrets bare;
For there is that which never should be known.