"Put by the lute, Girolamo, my son, Else shall I break in tears. Put by this too, Too sad, sweet music, sweetest son." She drew Nearer to him, whose pensive hands played on, Low music filling softness, longing in The wild sweet eyes. "My son, tell me the true Thing in your heart. You have been strange, with new Consuming vision. Day and night has been An agony. O my dear son, I fear For you!" Then to her love and to her tear Responded flame of the eyes. Dropping the lute, "The garden is the Lord's; we are but fruit Unto His hand. Apple of His desire, I burn with sweetness till I burn in fire." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LUNCH AT A CLUB by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE by EMMA LAZARUS IN A SWEDISH GRAVEYARD by EMMA LAZARUS |