Page:Poems (Fields)-1.djvu/75

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It hath a power, though all unstrung It lies neglected now;And from her hands 't will ne'er be wrung, Till death these limbs shall bow!
It hath no price since that sweet hour She tuned it first, and playedLove's evening hymn with the bower Her youthful fingers made.
A spirit like the summer's night Hangs o'er that cherished lyre,And whispers of the calm moonlight Are trembling from the wire;
Still on my ear her young voice falls, Still floats that melody,—On each loved haunt its music calls,— Go! leave that harp and me.
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