A MESSAGE
I bid thee sing the song I would have sung—
The high, pure strain that since my soul was born,
Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn,
Through all its chambers hath divinely rung!
In thee let my whole being find a tongue;
Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn,
Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn.
Youth holds the world in fee—and thou art young!
O my glad singer of the tuneful voice,
Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar,
Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach,
Beyond the plummet of a woman's speech.
Sing my songs for me, and from some far shore
My happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice!
The high, pure strain that since my soul was born,
Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn,
Through all its chambers hath divinely rung!
In thee let my whole being find a tongue;
Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn,
Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn.
Youth holds the world in fee—and thou art young!
O my glad singer of the tuneful voice,
Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar,
Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach,
Beyond the plummet of a woman's speech.
Sing my songs for me, and from some far shore
My happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice!
