Burning with kiss divine that made me so.
O brother mortal, likest to the snow,
Turn not in coldness from the song I bring,
But listen to my lyre's low murmuring,
Where down the cypresses I sadly go,
Through deepening twilight, lest the faint winds know
The secret of some tender little thing
That haunts and haunts me, and they tell it all--
All, all my sorrows and ambitious, too.
For these 'oercome me; these, through dreamy fall,
Keep calling, calling; beckoning, as to you:
'Up! Sing the song! Men shall forget your race,
Nor blush to keep the image of your face.'
Published in The Crisis, May 1913