THE CONFESSION
Oh, when I saw you yesterday I stood
Trembling and silent; thus you could not know
The vibrant, singing beauty, stealing slow,
A sacred fire through my veins and blood.
In the poor, songless, unawakened wood
Of lute forgotten, who can guess the flow
Of hidden harmonies to overthrow
The heart and sense if one set free the flood?
As the deaf master never hears the tone
His genius wakes; so you, who make me sing,
And all the pulses of my life control,
Know but my silence, whilst for you alone
Music and thought and song their concourse ring.
Turn, then, and hear the love-song of my soul.