Page:Prometheus bound - Browning (1833).djvu/160

 For me, all sorrowful, unused to raise A minstrel song and dream not of thy praise, Upon thy grave, my tuneless harp I lay, Nor try to sing what only tears can say. So warm and fast the ready waters swell— So weak the faltering voice thou knewest well! Thy words of kindness calm'd that voice before; Now, thoughts of them but make it tremble more; And leave its theme to others, and depart To dwell within the silence where thou art.