The sounds celestial rise.
Full oft my chords were steeped in tears and rue;
For the soul’s flower are tears the heavenly dew—
It blooms not in the sun’s unclouded ray.
From broken cups the sparkling juice is shed,
And the crushed herb, beneath our reckless tread,
Spreads perfume on our way.
God wrought my spirit of the subtle fire;
All she approached her being did inspire.
Ah, fatal gift! with love o’erfraught, I die.