Sonnet Cclxxxi: Poem by George Henry Boker

Hark! in that tone I heard my lady sigh,
Sigh with the burden of some longing pain,
Some dim half-thought, that will not come again;
Less of a thought than of a feeling shy.
And now she murmurs; ah! I know not, I,
What thing she murmurs; why the lengthened strain
Seems only to complain, and yet complain,
Unless my absence grieved her widowed eye.
Yes, yes, I love thee! If to answer this
Awoke the challenge of that haughty string--
Love as a slave whose shackles are his bliss.
What more? I listen.--Fie! thou fickle thing--
How the light treble with thy laugh doth ring,
Rippling to silence in a fleeting kiss!