That trivial speech, from silence rent,
Breaks off—a useless instrument.
For all the opening world is ours,
And you, tho scarce a woman yet,
Your eyes with feasts of lights and vintage set,
Hold all the dewy wealth of flowers,
And gold of Babylonian towers.
Our lives will alter if we move—
It were so easy now to rise
And tell my unimpassioned soul it lies—