A Song

The pouring music, soft and strong,
Some God within her soul has lit,
Her face is rosy with the song
And her gray eyes are sweet with it.
A woman so with singing fir'd,
Has earth a lovelier sight than this?
Oh, he that look'd had soon desir'd
Those lips to fasten with a kiss.

But let not him that race begin
Who seeks not toward its utmost goal;
Give me an hour for drinking in
Her fragrant and her early soul.
To happier hearts I leave the rest,
Who less and more than I shall know,
For me, world-weary, it is best
To listen for an hour and go:
To lift her hand, and press, and part,
And think upon her long and long,
And bear for ever in my heart
The tender traces of a song.