Page:In Bohemia (1886).djvu/15



Do not praise: a smile is payment more than meet for what is done; Who shall paint the mote's glad raiment floating in the molten sun? Nay, nor smile: for blind is eyesight, ears may hear not, lips are dumb; From the silence, from the twilight, wordless but complete they come.

Songs were born before the singer: like white souls awaiting birth. They abide the chosen bringer of their melody to earth.

Deep the pain of our demerit: strings so rude or rudely strung, Dull to every pleading spirit seeking speech but sent unsung;