Classic Poem

The gifts of Heaven to you and me have not been equal.
You play your table-lute even when it is stringless,
With the movement of your hands drawing forth the five-coloured sounds which delight you.
Your Unworthy One is dull,
She hears only what is.
I beg you, therefore, my Lord,
Speak the words which I am fain to believe abide in your heart.