He Inadvertently Cures His Love-Pains

                    (Song)

I said: "O let me sing the praise
Of her who sweetly racks my days,—
        Her I adore;
Her lips, her eyes, her moods, her ways!"

In miseries of pulse and pang
I strung my harp, and straightway sang
        As none before:—
To wondrous words my quavers rang!

Thus I let heartaches lilt my verse,
Which suaged and soothed, and made disperse
        The smarts I bore
To stagnance like a sepulchre's.

But, eased, the days that thrilled ere then
Lost value; and I ask, O when,
        And how, restore
Those old sweet agonies again!