XXI

Sometimes I fear thou'lt poise my muse's praise,
Against my spoken words, and sharply cry
'This man breathes lightning through his poetry,
Yet smoulders dully when aside he lays
His singing laurel, and in common ways
By loving actions, such as eyes may see,
Essays to make his passion plain to me.
These are but art's emotions--fiery rays
Struck from the poet's brain. His torpid heart
Sleeps on securely and was never wrung,
For all the frenzied measures which he sung.'
Ah, Love, misjudge not. Only through my art
Can I speak plainly. Utterance would depart,
If that were silent: 'tis my only tongue.