Ah, suffer that my song
To thee alone belong:
No dearer happiness my heart would choose
Than thus to cast, O sweet,
Each measured scroll before thy perfect feet,
Having no other muse.

O wistful love! how well
All that my lips would tell,
All that the lyre's revibrant strings attest,
Was writ upon thy breast
With kisses keen and slow . . .
So long, so long ago.

What tears are confluent
From springs and summers spent,
Feeding the fount of this our Helicon;
And wine forlornly poured,
Or spilt for thee, O maenad most adored,
In feasts of moon or sun.

Let now some interval
Of lyric silence fall;
Like heavy garlands let thy hair be shed
About by brow and head,
While songs unsung and sweet
Within our pulses beat.