O shade of Heine, if I dare
Apostrophise that spirit bright,
That lucent spirit, keen and rare,
By other name than that of Light!
Forgive that from your amber verse
I take your tears and make them mine,
And in my ruder speech rehearse
What in your own is so divine.
Your thoughts I folded to my breast,
I took your words upon my tongue;
Your thoughts rose up in sweet unrest,
Your words were clamorous to be sung;
I caught your breath and gave them forth,
But wintry currents changed to sleet
Your burning sighs, your airy mirth;—
And thus I rain them at your feet.