II
Intothe golden vessel of great songLet us pour all our passion; breast to breastLet other lovers lie, in love and rest;Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongueOf all the world: the churning blood, the longShuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressedSharply together upon the escaping guest,The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.Longing alone is singer to the lute;Let still on nettles in the open sighThe minstrel, that in slumber is as muteAs any man, and love be far and high,That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruitFound on the ground by every passer-by.
Intothe golden vessel of great songLet us pour all our passion; breast to breastLet other lovers lie, in love and rest;Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongueOf all the world: the churning blood, the longShuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressedSharply together upon the escaping guest,The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.Longing alone is singer to the lute;Let still on nettles in the open sighThe minstrel, that in slumber is as muteAs any man, and love be far and high,That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruitFound on the ground by every passer-by.
Intothe golden vessel of great songLet us pour all our passion; breast to breastLet other lovers lie, in love and rest;Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongueOf all the world: the churning blood, the longShuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressedSharply together upon the escaping guest,The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.Longing alone is singer to the lute;Let still on nettles in the open sighThe minstrel, that in slumber is as muteAs any man, and love be far and high,That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruitFound on the ground by every passer-by.