My words that once were virtuous and expressed
Nearly enough the mortal joys I knew,
Now that I sit to supper with the blest
Come haltingly, are very poor and few.
Whereof you speak and whereof the bright walls
Resound with silver mirth I am aware,
But I am faint beneath the coronals
Of living vines you set upon my hair.
Angelic friends that stand with pointed wings
Sweetly demanding, in what dulcet tone,
How fare I in this heaven of happy things, —
I cannot lift my words against your own.
Forgive the downcast look, the lyre unstrung;
Breathing your presence, I forget your tongue.