Plays and poems | ||
444
[Only through this, this precious gift of song]
Only through this, this precious gift of song,Can I hold converse with my lady now.
For many a threat, and many a lowering brow,
Are raised between us; and the ruthless thong
Of slander hisses through the air, to wrong
Her tender nature. To the storm I bow;
But, like a reed, the fiercer tempests grow,
The clearer is my singing. Ah! the throng
Of heedless men, who in my music hear
Only the echoes of their hearts, and see
Their petty loves reflected back from me,
Know not that every tone is meant to cheer
The dismal fortune of thy history,—
Know not, dear heart, I'm whispering in thy ear.
Plays and poems | ||