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Richard Henry Stoddard
(1853-1903)

American Poet

Silent Songs

IF I could ever sing the songs
Within me day and night,
The only fit accompaniment
Would be a lute of light.
A thousand dreamy melodies,
Begot with pleasant pain,
Like incantations float around
The chambers of my brain.
But when I strive to utter one,
It mocks my feeble art,
And leaves me silent, with the thorns
Of Music in my heart!

© 2001 Elena and Yakov Feldman