In sleepless nights my sad forgotten lute
Breathes with low strains of broken melody,
Under my touch long, long had it been mute,
But now it sings of its own fantasy.
Thou hadst a spirit then that was not mine,
Whence came it, Lute—by whom was't to thee given?
I knew not that an adverse will of thine
Against my will to make thee sing, had striven.
Now while I lie and watch the solemn flight
Of the fair stars that wait upon the night,
Whose are the songs thou murmurest in my ears,
That make my wakeful eyes brim o'er with tears?
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