Classic Poem

I must not yield … but if he would not sing!
My stilling hands upon my breast can feel
Its answer tremble like a muted string.
Below the vaulted window where I kneel

He sings, he sings, to stars and listening skies.
A white and haunted place my garden seems.—
I see the pleading beauty of his eyes
As faces glimmer in a pool of dreams.

So wooing wind might sweep a harp awake.
(Oh, muting fingers on each quivering string!)
I must not yield … I think my heart will break.
Mother of Heaven, if he would not sing!