I sing them, shyly, too,
For that's what lovers do;
He listens and He laughs at them, because
No singer and no love-song can match His.
Foolish daughter, lovely gem--
Sweet lovers' names, how I love them--
He calls me; but I call Him That Which Is.
How can He stoop to hear and smile again
At each my foolish ditty,
Catch me up, and turn me giddy,
Whether with joy, His joy, or with His pain?
How can there be a melody so sweet
This host-white love
To match, this life-word of
My smirched unworthy womanhood unmeet?
For every song of mine and every sigh
Is but my feeble try
To echo back the great love-song He made: so sweet, He says, it made somebody die--
We write our songs, the King of Love and I.