SONG OF SONGS
My heart is like a shady grove
That harbors, for a June,
My thoughts, like song-birds mad with love
Under the moon.
On all the windy boughs they sit
And in the blowing grass—
But one bird silently enters it,
And sings, alas!
Then all the rest grow sad and still
That made a happy noise:
There is no sound on all the hill
But that one voice,
Faint with the memories in his breast—
It is the thought of you—
And when it ceases, all the rest
Are silent, too.