Yearning Upon The Faint Rose-Curves That Flit About Her Child-Sweet Mouth And Innocent Cheek, And In Her Eyes Watching With Eyes All Meek The Light And Shadow Of Laughter, I Would Sit Mute, Knowing Our Two Souls Might Never Knit; As If A Pale Proud Lily-Flower Should Seek The Love Of Some Red Rose, But Could Not Speak One Word Of Her Blithe Tongue To Tell Of It. For Oh, My Love Was Sunny-Lipped And Stirred With All Swift Light And Sound And Gloom Not Long Retained; I, With Dreams Weighed, That Ever Heard Sad Burdens Echoing Through The Loudest Throng She, The Wild Song Of Some May-Merry Bird; I, But The Listening Maker Of A Song.