Which voiced his love, his sorrow, and his fear.

 Sweetheart, my soul is heavy now with fear, Lest thou shalt frown upon me for all time. Ah! would that I had skill to weave a rhyme Worthy to win the favor of thine ear. Tho' all the world were deaf, if thou didst hear And smile, my song would seem to me sublime. 

Lest thou shalt frown upon me for all time.

Worthy to win the favor of thine ear.

And smile, my song would seem to me sublime.

 But ah! too vast, too awful and sublime, Is my great passion, born of grief and fear, To clothe in verse. Why, if the world could hear And understand my love, then for all time, So long as there was sound or listening ear, All space would ring and echo with my rhyme. 

Is my great passion, born of grief and fear,

And understand my love, then for all time,

All space would ring and echo with my rhyme.

 Such passion seems belittled by a rhyme— It needs the voice of nature. The sublime, Loud thunder crash, that hurts the startled ear, And stirs the heart with awe, akin to fear, The weird, wild winds of equinoctial time; These voices tell my love, wouldst thou but hear. 

Loud thunder crash, that hurts the startled ear,

And stirs the heart with awe, akin to fear,

These voices tell my love, wouldst thou but hear.

 And listening at the flood tides, thou might'st hear The love I bear thee surging through the rhyme Of breaking billows, many a moon full time. Why, I have heard thee call the sea sublime, When every wave but voiced the anguished fear Of my man's heart to thy unconscious ear. 

The love I bear thee surging through the rhyme

Of breaking billows, many a moon full time.

Why, I have heard thee call the sea sublime,

 Vain, then, the hope that thou wilt lend thine ear To any song of mine, or deign to hear My lays of longing or my strains of fear. Vain is the hope to weave for thee a rhyme, Or sweet or sad, or subtle or sublime, Which wins thy gracious favor for all time. 

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