Was Time Not Harsh To You, Or Was He Kind, O Pale Erinna Of The Perfect Lyre, That He Has Left No Word Of Singing Fire Whereby You Waked The Dreaming Lesbian Wind, And Kindled Night Along The Lyric Shore? O Girl Whose Lips Erato Stooped To Kiss, Do You Go Sorrowing Because Of This In Fields Where Poets Sing Forevermore? Or Are You Glad And Is It Best To Be A Silent Music Men Have Never Heard, A Dream In All Our Souls That We May Say: "Her Voice Had All The Rapture Of The Sea, And All The Clear Cool Quiver Of A Bird Deep In A Forest At The Break Of Day"?