Unable to say what pleasure of this kind is,
I thought of love deprived of sound;
If love’s moan were not allowed, strange the bliss
To silent performance strangely bound,
Love’s fate, to have no sound at all:
All sighs, songs, gasps, pleadings, taken away—
Not that love would seem a dumb show of hate,
Or love itself die as night dies in day,
For eyes and smiles and stroking hands
Can always picture love love understands—
But still it would be strange to have no sound
When love lives in her face—and all around.
But if her face is musically unique,
It should be easy for my poetry to speak.
