 | Camera obscura |  |
70
L'ENVOI.
I hold within my hand a lute,
A lute that hath not many strings.
A little bird above it sings,
And singing soars and claps his wings;
Sing, little bird: when thou art mute,
The music dies within my lute.
A lute that hath not many strings.
A little bird above it sings,
And singing soars and claps his wings;
Sing, little bird: when thou art mute,
The music dies within my lute.
Sing on, thou little bird, until
I hear a voice expected long,
That bids an after-silence fill
The space that once was filled with song.
Then fold thy wings upon my breast
Upon my heart, and give it rest.
I hear a voice expected long,
That bids an after-silence fill
The space that once was filled with song.
Then fold thy wings upon my breast
Upon my heart, and give it rest.
| Camera obscura | |