  While Sorrow sat beside me many a day, I,—with head turned from her, and yet aware How her eyes’ light was on my brow and hair, The light which bites and blights our gold to grey,— Still sang, and swift winds bore my songs away Full of sweet sounds, as of a lute-player Who sees fresh colours, breathes the ripe soft air, And hears the cuckoo shout in dells of May, Being filled with ease and indolent of heart. So sang I, Sorrow near me: chide me not, O Joy, for silence now! Hereafter wise, Large song may come, life blossoming in art, From this new fate; but leave me, thou long sought, To gaze awhile into those perfect eyes. |
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