The Song
A Song lay silent in my pen
Where yesterday I found it,
Right cozy in its gloomy den,
With a melody wrapped round it.
Through all the years ’t was waiting so,
To hear the summons of that minute;
I thought I loved the pen; but no!
It was the song within it!
To-day my lady sang to me
My song in sweetest fashion:
Unwrapped it from the melody
In the radiance of its passion.
As one might see a blossom grow,
Yet never see the sun above it,
I thought I loved the song; but no!
It was her singing of it!