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THE LEGACY OF THE LUTE.
To speak love's burning words, yet be
Alone—ay, utterly alone.
I sought to fling my laurel wreath
Away upon the autumn wind:
In vain,—'twas like those poison'd crowns
Thou may'st not from the brow unbind.
Predestined from my birth to feed
On dreams, yet watch those dreams depart;
To bear through life—to feel in death—
A burning and a broken heart.
Then hang it on the cypress bough,
The minstrel-lute I leave to thee;
And be it only for the wind
To wake its mournful dirge for me.
