Song Of Songs Poem by Wilfred Owen

Sing me at morn but only with your laugh;
Even as Spring that laugheth into leaf;
Even as Love that laugheth after Life.


Sing me but only with your speech all day,
As voluble leaflets do; let viols die;
The least word of your lips is melody!


Sing me at eve but only your sigh!
Like lifting seas it solaceth; breathe so,
Slowly and low, the sense that no songs say.


Sing me at midnight with your murmurous heart!
Let youth's immortal-moaning chord be heard
Throbbing through you, and sobbing, unsubdued.