To Timarion

Had I the thrush's throat, I could not sing you Songs sweeter than his own. And I'm too poor To lay the gifts that other lovers bring you Low at your silver door.

Such as I have, I give. See, for your taking Tired hands are here, and feet grown dark with dust. Here's a lost hope, and here a heart whose aching Grows greater than its trust.

Sleep on, you will not hear me. But tomorrow You will remember in your fragrant ways, Finding the voice of twilight and my sorrow Lovelier than all men's praise.