I have given them songs and laughter, all the many
Mayfly lovers whose bright love danced and was ended.
All that I was, I gave. But you not any
Song of mine shall garner. Pass on, unfriended.
Not from these worn, dim strings that sang at all doors
(Less from worship than from their love of singing,)
Shall I pluck music to match this music of yours,
That is the lonely crest of the wild swan’s winging.
None shall know from any telling of mine
Whether your face had the light of the youngest star;
Whether the curve of your mouth was a road drawn far
Into a secret forest . . . unto a shrine.
There is no song for you here, save the word unspoken;
Save silence white as the moonrise, and as unbroken.