MY SONG

I could not sing unless my song

Had in its symphony one broken string;

I could not say the thoughts that in me rise

Unless my heart had been a broken thing.

Why is it that the voice of Song so yields

Mute music till the heart hath bled?

Why should we find most fair and far-off fields

By thorny by-paths led?

But if this little weakling song of mine

Might carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul,

Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wine

And, smiling, drink the lees left in the bowl:

For I have in the darkness found some light,—

Some sunshine seen in shadowed evening hours,

And I have found throughout the lonely night

Some perfumed breathings from wild garden bowers.

And I were ingrate not to send it on,

Such echo of what music in me lies,

For it may bring to some o'er darkened dawn

The brightening glow that comes with morning skies.

So, go you, little broken Song,

And carry to some heart in bitter pain

Only my lute's light laughter. Make thou strong

The weak of heart and bid them smile again.