html website builder

SINCE there are no words that can hold the brine
On this sad evening in my soul distilling,
Let a pure fiddle-bow above it thrilling
Its bitterness of lonely grief refine.


Music! Clear goblet full of memory, thine
The only water is for the thirst's stilling;
The soul to be dissolved in thee is willing,
Even as in kisses are desires that pine.


O sob of gold!... O god-like magic!... Fresh
Winds of a wing run o'er the feverous flesh,
And we are by an angel's hand caressed....


Harmony, thou a helpful virgin art,
Cradling like a poor child on thy breast
Our infinite heart, our miserable heart.