Classic Poem

L OVE'S pleadings will be heard though lips be still,
In fluttering breaths that quicken into sighs,
In timid hands that touch and cling and thrill,
And in the dear confession of the eyes;
Yes, very silence has a voice of prayer
More sweet than any old Provençal air.

As when beside a viol lying mute,
Strong chords are struck until it seems to wake
And give an answering murmur to the lute,
So heart will throb to heart for love's sweet sake,
And chant in faint, delicious harmonies
The rapturous passion-song that never dies.

How dim on sculptured shafts remains the trace
Of stately idioms syllabled no more,
While ever in divine, perennial grace,
Endures the nameless unrecorded lore,
Whereby in all the ages passed away
Love made its mute petition, as to-day.