Third Song Without a Name
My love upon my palette lies,
And on my brush my heart.
So is it strange a maiden walks
Each canvas of mine art?
I ne'er shall press this maiden's lips;
But, O, why should I thus despair
When I could mend my soul with one
Gold sunbeam of her hair?
Her faintest smile to me was meat
For banquets of my worshipping;
And yet she gave her love to one
Who held it as a common thing.
Strange world! that grants the blind a rose;
And music, where the waters meet,
Unto the deaf; while I must tread
My soul to dust upon the street.
And on my brush my heart.
So is it strange a maiden walks
Each canvas of mine art?
I ne'er shall press this maiden's lips;
But, O, why should I thus despair
When I could mend my soul with one
Gold sunbeam of her hair?
Her faintest smile to me was meat
For banquets of my worshipping;
And yet she gave her love to one
Who held it as a common thing.
Strange world! that grants the blind a rose;
And music, where the waters meet,
Unto the deaf; while I must tread
My soul to dust upon the street.
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