Page:Florence Earle Coates Mine and Thine 1904 110.jpg



Love, reproachful, sighed: "Art thou become

Voiceless, who in my praise wast eloquent?

To wound my name, unto high heaven is sent

A vain lamenting,—the exordium

Of fruitless plaint and chiding wearisome,—

While they to whom my chiefest joys are lent,

To worship me in silence are content!"

Love, even so: whom thou dost bless are dumb.

Listen! That strain of ecstasy and pain!

Far-echoing from Thrace, it breathes again,