We say, the song is sorrowful, but know not
What may have left that sorrow on the song;
However mournful words may be, they show not
The whole extent of wretchedness and wrong.
They cannot paint the long sad hours, passed only
In vain regrets o’er what we feel we are.
Alas! the kingdom of the lute is lonely—
Cold is the worship coming from afar.
Yet what is mind in woman, but revealing
In sweet clear light the hidden world below,
By quicker fancies and a keener feeling
Than those around, the cold and careless, know?
What is to feed such feeling, but to culture
A soil whence pain will never more depart?
The fable of Prometheus and the vulture
Reveals the poet’s and the woman’s heart.
Unkindly are they judged—unkindly treated—
By careless tongues and by ungenerous words;
While cruel sneer, and hard reproach, repeated,
Jar the fine music of the spirit’s chords.
Wert thou not weary—thou whose soothing numbers
Gave other lips the joy thine own had not.
Didst thou not welcome thankfully the slumbers
Which closed around thy mourning human lot?
What on this earth could answer thy requiring,
For earnest faith—for love, the deep and true,
The beautiful, which was thy soul’s desiring,
But only from thyself its being drew.
How is the warm and loving heart requited
In this harsh world, where it awhile must dwell.
Its best affections wronged, betrayed, and slighted—
Such is the doom of those who love too well.
Better the weary dove should close its pinion,
Fold up its golden wings and be at peace;
Enter, O ladye, that serene dominion,
Where earthly cares and earthly sorrows cease.
Fame’s troubled hour has cleared, and now replying,
A thousand hearts their music ask of thine.
Sleep with a light the lovely and undying
Around thy grave—a grave which is a shrine.
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