John William Inchbold
O wherefore write thy thoughts in careful measure?
It cannot be thine own voice gives thee joy,
In song is there an all-sufficient treasure,
Whose numbers leave no lingering alloy?
Take this my answer, Love, and then I cease;—
I sang that thou might'st read with loving mind,
That images of beauty might increase,
And treasure, still more treasure, haply find;—
But I have done—to thee the sea and sky,
The sweet spring time, the sweeter autumn night,
And breath of loving summer all come nigh,
And speak in words unbreathed again, yet bright
As burnished sunshine on a waveless sea.
What wonder then these lines are lost to thee.
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