Into the golden vessel of great song  
Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast  
Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;  
Not we,“articulate, so, but with the tongue  
Of all the world: the churning blood, the long  
Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed  
Sharply together upon the escaping guest, 
The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.  
Longing alone is singer to the lute;  
Let still on nettles in the open sigh  
The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute  
As any man, and love be far and high,  
That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit  
Found on the ground by every passer-by.