This woman who is gentle to the last, Whose keen and tempered passions are a web Of finest wisdom, knew in times long past Some tide of rapture that has had no ebb. Some part of her waits still to be revealed In music darkly subtle and intense, Restrained by thought so marvelously steeled One might not guess its desperate immanence. This hidden thing enriches her delight, Colours her laughter, broods in her repose, Burns like a sorrow in her secret night, And of its warmth and wonder, deeply glows; But like a glorious and splendid sin Cries and defies her in her violin. |