LVI
IF every song I sing seems tinged with sadness;
If every hour I think of thee I sigh;
If I for love still grieve, ask me not why
I do not sing to-day in joy and gladness;
Nor tell me, if not so, that it is madness.
For such strange action would my heart belie,
And from my spirit ring a love-sick cry
Against so fair a semblance of its badness.
If reason thou wouldst have, ask thine own self
Why thou dost keep me, in love’s penury,
Upon the desert of my great desire,
And, like some oasis, receive myself
At distant spaces of its memory—
To burn my soul with an unquenchèd fire!