When other girls, whose faces are,
Beside thy face,
As rushlights to the evening star,
Deny thy grace,

I silent sit and let them speak,
As men of strength
Allow the impotent and weak
To rail at length.

If they should tell me Love is blind,
And so doth miss
The faults which they are quick to find,
I'd answer this:

Envy is blind; not Love, whose eyes
Are purged and clear
Through gazing on the perfect skies
Of thine, my dear.




MUSIC FOR THE DYING


FROM THE FRENCH OF SULLY PRUDHOMME

Ye who will help me in my dying pain,