CCXL

So long have paused the strings across my lute,
So many streams of bitterness have run
Athwart my way, so pitiless the sun
Has scourged my shoulders in his cruel pursuit;
So dry and sour has been the fairest fruit
Grown for my shrinking lips to feed upon,
Since the mysterious destinies begun
The work that left me spiritless and mute;
That I, ah! harmless shell of wood and wire,
Dread, as I touch thee, lest thy hollows groan
A dismal concord to the furies' ire;
Or worse, more dreaded, that in thee alone
The glad days linger and the ancient fire,
And I shall hear thy old, familiar tone!