Singing go I, seeking for ever a song
Sung long ago; I ask no more to hear
Her voice that sang — for I should do her wrong,
Had I the power, to bring her once more near —
Near to the earth, its sorrow or its joy,
To drag her back into the arms of pain
And Love and all the April flowers again
And all her little dreams of heaven destroy.
Have I the heart? Ah! had I but the song,
The nightingale would listen and all things
That talk in waterfalls and trees and strings
Would hush themselves to listen as I sang,
Had I the song.