21.06.2007, 21:13
II.
Not mine the spell to charm your lute to song;
A poet you, yet not for me your lays;
You crowned that other woman with your praise,
Lifting your voice to Heaven, triumphant, strong,
And later rhymes might do her laurels wrong;
Should you and I together tread life's ways,
An echo would pursue us from old days,
And men would say—"He loved once, well and long,
So now without great love he is content,
Since she is dead whose praise he used to sing,
And daily needs demand their ailment.". . .
Thus some poor bird, who strives with broken wing
To soar, might stoop—strength gone and glad life spent—
To any hand that his scant food would bring.
Not mine the spell to charm your lute to song;
A poet you, yet not for me your lays;
You crowned that other woman with your praise,
Lifting your voice to Heaven, triumphant, strong,
And later rhymes might do her laurels wrong;
Should you and I together tread life's ways,
An echo would pursue us from old days,
And men would say—"He loved once, well and long,
So now without great love he is content,
Since she is dead whose praise he used to sing,
And daily needs demand their ailment.". . .
Thus some poor bird, who strives with broken wing
To soar, might stoop—strength gone and glad life spent—
To any hand that his scant food would bring.