O noble poet, I have loved thee well, But foolish man or wise thy songs to sing In wooing of a frigid damoiselle, I must confess, I am still wondering. Was she a living woman, can it be That woman lived who listened to such suit, And could so callously refuse thy plea? Or was she marble, and thus safely mute -- Some goddess, Heaven designed to guard thy youth, And foster inspiration's sacred flame? Had she been woman, beautiful in truth, With lasting loveliness (a warmer aim), Ere twenty of thy ardent songs were spent, She had caught fire, and proven thy intent. |