As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. - John Keats

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade.

There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in the rubbish.