Thy deepest dolor shalt thou tell,
But nevermore thy happiness:
Unworded still and utterless,
The incredible dark raptures dwell.

Too readily our lips repine
For splendor lost and beauty flown:
Our speech is made of earthly moan
And not the praise of things divine.

Ah, facile are the songs we sing
To dulcimers that sorrows mute:
But joy requires a stronger lute
Of high unshatterable string.