Had I the thrushes’ throat, I could not sing to you songs sweeter than it’s own.
And I’m too poor to lay the gifts other lovers bring to you low at your silver door.
Such as I have, I give, See, for your taking tired hands are here, and feet grown dark with dust. Here’s a lost hope and here a heart whose aching grows greater than it’s trust.
Sleep on, Sleep on, you will not hear me. But tomorrow you’ll remember in your fragrant ways, Finding the voice of twilight and my sorrow.
Lovlier than all men’s praise. Had I the thrushes’ throat, I could not sing to you songs sweeter that’s own.
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