I 

"Why are your songs all wild and bitter sad 
As funeral dirges with the orphans' cries? 
Each night since first the world was made hath had 
A sequent day to laugh it down the skies. 
Chant us a glee to make our hearts rejoice, 
Or seal in silence this unmanly moan." 
My friend, I have no power to rule my voice -- 
A spirit lifts me where I lie alone, 
And thrills me into song by its own laws; 
That which I feel, but seldom know, indeed 
Tempering the melody it could not cause. 
The bleeding heart cannot forever bleed 
Inwardly solely; on the wan lips, too, 
Dark blood will bubble ghastly into view. 


II 

Striving to sing glad songs, I but attain 
Wild discords sadder than Grief's saddest tune; 
As if an owl with his harsh screech should strain 
To over-gratulate a thrush of June. 
The nightingale upon its thorny spray 
Finds inspiration in the sullen dark; 
The kindling dawn, the world-wide joyous day 
Are inspiration to the soaring lark; 
The seas are silent in the sunny calm, 
Their anthem surges in the tempest boom; 
The skies outroll no solemn thunder psalm 
Till they have clothed themselves with clouds of gloom. 
My mirth can laugh and talk, but cannot sing; 
My grief finds harmonies in everything.