To passion’s slaves let no man e’er
The mystery of thy love declare:
It is not meet for straws to hear
Talk of the blazing brazier.

I was to eloquence designed,
And thou hast bid me speak my mind;
Such things are in the breast of me
As unto none may uttered be.

Deep in my heart’s recesses lies
The sweetest song that yearns to rise;
Among the leaves my notes shall ring,
But in the cage I cannot sing.

‘Tis passing strange, if yearning be
Not born to immortality;
How can thy history be said
In these few breaths, ere I. am dead?