Classic Poem

I lean my head to hear each string:
We hum together, cheek to cheek,
And oh, there is not anything
So loud, but I can hear it speak.
And it is shapen like some fruit
All mellowness—my Lute.
(Wilt sing?)

My singing-bird that I love dear!
Above the sound of harp and flute
And viol-grown, the voice is clear
Brown honey from my little Lute.
I harken so to every tone,
Because it is my own.