I Must Not Yield

I must not yield ... but if he would not sing! My stilling hands upon my breast can feel Its answer tremble like a muted string. Below the vaulted window where I kneel

He sings, he sings, to stars and listening skies. A white and haunted place my garden seems.— I see the pleading beauty of his eyes As faces glimmer in a pool of dreams.

So wooing wind might sweep a harp awake. (Oh, muting fingers on each quivering string!) I must not yield ... I think my heart will break. Mother of Heaven, if he would not sing!