  Though thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delight Upon these airs, bird of the poet's love, Yet must I sing thy singing! for the Night Has poured her jewels o'er the lap of heaven As they who've heard thee say thou dost above The wood such ecstasies as were not given By nestling breasts of Venus to the dove. Oft I have watched the moon orb her fair gold, Still clung to by the tattered mists of day And look for thee. Then has my hope grown bold Till almost I could see how the near laurels Would tremble with thy trembling: but the sway Of bards who've wreathed thee with unfading chorals Has held my longing lips from this poor lay. None but the sky-hid lark whose spirit is Too high for earth may vie for praise with thee In aery rhapsody. And since 'tis his To sing of day and joy as thou of sorrow More dear than he—till hearts shall cease to borrow From grief the healing for life's mystery. Then loose thy song! Though no grave ear may list Its lyric trouble, still 'tis soothing sweet To know that songs unheard and graces missed By every eye melt on the skies that nourish Us with immortal blue; and, changed, repeat Their protean loveliness in all we cherish. For beauty cannot die, howe'er 'tmay fleet. |
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