What hope is hero for modern rhyme
To him, who turns a musing eye
One sings, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshortened in the tract of time?
To him, who turns a musing eye
One sings, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshortened in the tract of time?
These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curle a mainden´s locks
Or when a thousand moons shall wane
A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, may turn the page that tells
A grief, than changed to something else,
Sung by a long-forgotten mind.
But what of that? My darkened ways
Shall ring with music all the same
To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To utter love mores sweet than praise
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