Why

Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? I catch faint perfumes of the blossoms white That maidens drape their tresses with at night, And, through dim smiles of beauty and the din Of the musicians' harp and violin, I hear, enwound and blended with the dance, The voice whose echo is this utterance,-- Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?

Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? I see but vacant windows, curtained o'er With webs whose architects forevermore Race up and down their slender threads to bind The buzzing fly's wings whirless, and to wind The living victim in his winding sheet.-- I shudder, and with whispering lips repeat, Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?

Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? What will you have for answer?--Shall I say That he who sings the merriest roundelay Hath neither joy nor hope?--and he who sings The lightest, sweetest, tenderest of things But utters moan on moan of keenest pain, So aches his heart to ask and ask in vain, Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?