I give thee sorrow, and I give thee pain: 'Tis all the troubled singer has to give! This, this is all thy guerdon while I live,— And, now and then, the pleasure of a strain. Not more can I bestow while I remain On earth an outcast and a wayfarer, With all the night's harsh dewdrops in my hair;— This scant reward and piteous thou shalt gain! But after death there comes my time of pleasure When I may crown thee in more ample measure,— Fill up thy coronet with golden bars:— First friendship through the agony of earth; Then heaven and close-bound hearts that sing for mirth! First sorrow; then a crown of many stars! |