LOVERS COME to you, my Queen, and proudly lay their riches at your feet: but my tribute is made up of unfulfilled hopes. Shadows have stolen across the heart of my world and the best in me has lost light. While the fortunate laugh at my penury, I ask you to lend my failings your tears, and so make them precious. I bring you a voiceless instrument. I strained to reach a note which was too high in my heart, and the string broke. While masters laugh at the snapped cord, I ask you to take my lute in your hands and fill its hollowness with your songs.
WHAT IS IT THAT drives these bees from their home; these followers of unseen trails? What cry is this in their eager wings? How can they hear the music that sleeps in the flower soul? How can they find their way to the chamber where the honey lies shy and silent?
