TO ⸺.
Dear lady, doth the singer’s voice in thee
Awake an answering chord? if not so, be
Barren the song and all devoid of worth,
Save to awaken idle scorn and mirth;
Thy soul, self-poised in cold tranquillity,
Will smile to think how foolish some may be.
But if thy bosom swell with tender sighs,
If the deep fountains of thy soul are stirred,
Meeting some dear but unexpected word;
If, answering mine, responsive pulses rise,
And thy lips tremble to the happy eyes
Suffused with pleasure at the glad surprise
Of verses all too cold for thy completeness,
Know thy own heart hath lent them all their sweetness.