I cannot deck my thought in proud attire,
Or make it fit for thee in any dress,
Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire,
In summer's heat, or by the winter's fire,
Or give thee cause to comfort or to bless.
For I have scann'd mine own unworthiness
And well I know the weakness of the lyre
Which I have striven to sway to thy caress.
Yet must I quell my tears and calm the smart
Of my vext soul, and steadfastly emerge
From lonesome thoughts, as from the tempest's surge.
I must control the beating of my heart,
And bid false pride be gone, who, with his art,
Has press'd, too long, a suit I dare not urge.