I ASK NO reward for the songs I sang you. I shall be content if they live through the night, until Dawn, like a shepherd-maiden, calls away the stars, in alarm at the sun. But there were moments when you sang your songs to me, and as my pride knows, my Poet, you will ever remember that I listened and lost my heart.
THEY CALL YOU mad. Wait for tomorrow and keep silent. They throw dust upon your head. Wait for tomorrow. They will bring their wreath. They sit apart in their high seat. Wait for tomorrow. They will come down and bend their head.
