From the still breast;
Fill’d with a tone—oh! not for deathless fame,
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name,
Where it would rest.
And Song made answer—“It is not in me,
Though call’d immortal; though my gifts may be
All but divine.
A place of lonely brightness I can give:
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live—
This is not mine!”