HAD I the thrush's throat, I could not sing you br Songs sweeter than his own. And I'm too poor br To lay the gifts that other lovers bring you br Low at your silver door. br br Such as I have, I give. See, for your taking br Tired hands are here, and feet grown dark with dust. br Here's a lost hope, and here a heart whose aching br Grows greater than its trust. br br Sleep on, you will not hear me. But to-morrow br You will remember in your fragrant ways, br Finding the voice of twilight and my sorrow br Lovelier than all men's praise.