( TO E. J. W. )

I F to your wondrous voice and art
I give not plaudits with the throng,
'T is lest I spill my brimming heart
And in the singer lose the song.

Too soon the sweetest cadence dies;
The vanished vision leaves but this:
The burden of the things we prize,
The pathos of the things we miss.

Oh, for a silence that should hold
These echoes of delicious sound
As depths of a still lake enfold
Brooks that fall fainter bound by bound.

Yours is the art of Orphic power
To charm the soul from out its hell —
Deserts of absence to reflower
With rose instead of asphodel.

Like dew on gossamer, a tear
Lies on the fabric of our dream:
Despairing hope! that we who hear
Might be as noble as you seem.