The Vigil of Love

She sings, but we are silent: when shall Spring
Of mine come to me? I as the swallow make
Me vocal, and this desolate silence break?
The Muse has left me for I cannot sing;
Nor does Apollo now his splendour bring
To aid my vision, blinded for her sake—
Thus mute Amyclas would not silence wake
And perished in the shadow of its wing.

The wings of the imperishable Dove
Unfold for flight, and we shall cease from sorrow;
Song shall the beauty of dead Silence borrow
When lips once mute now raise this chant above:
Love to the loveless shall be given to-morrow,
To-morrow for the lover shall be love.