Love Letters of a Violinist

I would not lose the power to shed a tear

For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign.

I die to serve thee, and for this alone,—

To be thy bard-elect, from day to day,—

I would forego the right to fill a throne.

He is our friend, though morbidly we shun

His tender touch,—a cure for every ill.

It is the soul of thee, and not the form,

And not the face, I yearn-to in my sleep.

I'll find thy grave, though wall'd in stone.

I'll move thy mould to make my bed,

And lie with thee long hours alone

find thy grave, though wall'd in stone.

I'll move thy mould to make my bed,

And lie with thee long hours alone

Oh! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor and slighted,

The songs we love are those we hear when love is unrequited.

I did not think that I should hate the moon,

Or new or old, or that my fevered brow

Requir'd the sun to cool it.

Mine own true Lady, whom a happy lark

Did late salute, appointing, after dark,

A nightingale to carol in his place.

Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?