23.07.2007, 08:41
THE NEW DAY. XI. LOVE'S MONOTONE.
THou art so used, Love, to thine own bird's song,
Sung to thine ear in love's low monotone,
Sung to thee only, Love, to thee alone
Of all the listening world,- that I among
My doubts find this the leader of the throng:
Haply the music hath accustomed grown
And no more music is to thee; my own
Too faithful argument works its own wrong.
I have no art of silence, Love; I sing
Because my soul is joyful in thy light,
And I cannot refuse thee any thing.
But should thy bird at last fall silent quite,
Wouldst thou then be a little sorrowing?
Think not of me but of thyself to-night.
THou art so used, Love, to thine own bird's song,
Sung to thine ear in love's low monotone,
Sung to thee only, Love, to thee alone
Of all the listening world,- that I among
My doubts find this the leader of the throng:
Haply the music hath accustomed grown
And no more music is to thee; my own
Too faithful argument works its own wrong.
I have no art of silence, Love; I sing
Because my soul is joyful in thy light,
And I cannot refuse thee any thing.
But should thy bird at last fall silent quite,
Wouldst thou then be a little sorrowing?
Think not of me but of thyself to-night.