How shall I give thee what was never mine? I have no voice, no hope beneath the sky; All sound and silence are a melody Played on my heartstrings by some touch of thine. Thine is the glory of my brave design, The ardour, the compulsion, and the cry; Mine but the hoarseness and the unbidden sigh Muffling the silver music of the line. If aught of rapture from the feeble string Escape and swell and tremble as I sing, Think what the might of loveliness must be, That from the dust could raise a living thing, And from the cold heart of a doubter wring This book of verses, writ in love of thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BAD CHILD'S BOOK OF BEASTS: INTRODUCTION by HILAIRE BELLOC A DREAM OF JULIUS CAESAR by ROBERT FROST ON BRODSKY'S COLLECTED by MICHAEL S. HARPER TO THE ROCK THAT WILL BE A CORNERSTONE OF THE HOUSE by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE STORM by KATHERINE MANSFIELD JOHN WILKES BOOTH AT THE FARM (JANUARY 12, 1848) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |