Song Of Songs

Sing me at morn but only with your laugh;

Even as Spring that laugheth into leaf;

Even as Love that laugheth after Life.

Sing me but only with your speech all day,

As voluble leaflets do; let viols die;

The least word of your lips is melody!

Sing me at eve but only your sigh!

Like lifting seas it solaceth; breathe so,

Slowly and low, the sense that no songs say.

Sing me at midnight with your murmurous heart!

Let youth's immortal-moaning chord be

Throbbing through you, and sobbing, unsubdued.