 | The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd |  |
108
A DEDICATION
I thought indeed to make you many songs,
To whom the best of all I am belongs.
But now I know why one beloved name
Shall prompt no music to importune fame.
Songs are but words, and words are poor and cold,
And hollow, hollow all the set rhymes ring;
I sang of love who knew it not of old,
And now I know I cannot sing!
To whom the best of all I am belongs.
But now I know why one beloved name
Shall prompt no music to importune fame.
Songs are but words, and words are poor and cold,
And hollow, hollow all the set rhymes ring;
I sang of love who knew it not of old,
And now I know I cannot sing!
Let this content you, if my whole life show
What none but you would greatly care to know,
If mute communion more avail to teach
The depth and height no range of song can reach.
Not both good gifts the jealous gods allot,
The artist's self forbears to touch one string;
Of old I sang of love who knew it not,
And now I know I cannot sing!
What none but you would greatly care to know,
If mute communion more avail to teach
The depth and height no range of song can reach.
Not both good gifts the jealous gods allot,
The artist's self forbears to touch one string;
Of old I sang of love who knew it not,
And now I know I cannot sing!
| The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd | |