They bid me go forget my grief in Art;
But, dear, what art is so aloof and so
Distinct from thee that it can bring my heart
The balm less all-embracing sorrows know?
Most surely not the painter’s; he, alas!
With all the cunning of his craft divine,
But disappoints my sight with what might pass
For beauty—had I never looked on thine.
And music, what can music do but fill
The trembling cup of longing to the brim?
There is no music—save a child’s voice still
Soft singing in the dusk the evening hymn.
My very art, my art of song—ah me!
What is it now but one long sob for thee?