I br br "Why are your songs all wild and bitter sad br As funeral dirges with the orphans' cries? br Each night since first the world was made hath had br A sequent day to laugh it down the skies. br Chant us a glee to make our hearts rejoice, br Or seal in silence this unmanly moan." br My friend, I have no power to rule my voice -- br A spirit lifts me where I lie alone, br And thrills me into song by its own laws; br That which I feel, but seldom know, indeed br Tempering the melody it could not cause. br The bleeding heart cannot forever bleed br Inwardly solely; on the wan lips, too, br Dark blood will bubble ghastly into view. br br br II br br Striving to sing glad songs, I but attain br Wild discords sadder than Grief's saddest tune; br As if an owl with his harsh screech should strain br To over-gratulate a thrush of June. br The nightingale upon its thorny spray br Finds inspiration in the sullen dark; br The kindling dawn, the world-wide joyous day br Are inspiration to the soaring lark; br The seas are silent in the sunny calm, br Their anthem surges in the tempest boom; br The skies outroll no solemn thunder psalm br Till they have clothed themselves with clouds of gloom. br My mirth can laugh and talk, but cannot sing; br My grief finds harmonies in everything.