My Voice

Within this restless, hurried, modern world

      We look our hearts' full pleasure—You and I,

And now the white sails of our ship are furled,

      And spent the lading of our argosy.

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,

      For very weeping is my gladness fled,

Sorrow has paled my young mouth's vermilion,

      And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

But all this crowded life has been to thee

      No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell

Of viols, or the music of the sea

      That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.