Verse-tales, Lyrics and Translations By Emily H. Hickey |
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WHY, IF ALL POETS CROWN THEIR LOVES WITH VERSE. |
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WHY, IF ALL POETS CROWN THEIR LOVES WITH VERSE.
Why, if all poets crown their loves with verse,
Should my beloved miss her due of me;
Go with her forehead bare so utterly
Of rhythmic gold her poet should make hers?
Scarce would it fret her whose deep spirit stirs
My spirit; for she knoweth well that she
Beyond all friends, all kin, has gained to see
Into my soul, its better and its worse.
Should my beloved miss her due of me;
Go with her forehead bare so utterly
Of rhythmic gold her poet should make hers?
Scarce would it fret her whose deep spirit stirs
My spirit; for she knoweth well that she
Beyond all friends, all kin, has gained to see
Into my soul, its better and its worse.
It is no fancy dear, no fair conceit,
Which hails it God's own voice that bad my soul
Sob up through all its bonds of self control,
Hearing the sound of this beloved's feet,
Laugh, cry, as children do. But, O my sweet,
Let me be still, who dare not speak the whole.
Which hails it God's own voice that bad my soul
Sob up through all its bonds of self control,
Hearing the sound of this beloved's feet,
Laugh, cry, as children do. But, O my sweet,
Let me be still, who dare not speak the whole.
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