 | Later poems by John B. Tabb |  |
37
O'ERCOME
I pause for tears. But thou, my lute,
Why art thou, like thy master, mute?
Hath harmony within thee bred
The hope thou hast interpreted?
Why art thou, like thy master, mute?
Hath harmony within thee bred
The hope thou hast interpreted?
Nay; if thou falter, Love may deem
Our passion but an idle dream.
Speak then, my lute, that all may hear
How silence holds me prisoner.
Our passion but an idle dream.
Speak then, my lute, that all may hear
How silence holds me prisoner.
| Later poems by John B. Tabb | |