The Girl At The Harp

LIKE Clotho, at her harp she sits and weaves
 With mystic fingers from the swaying strings
 A melody that ever louder sings
 And my charmed heart in vibrant rapture leaves
 All hers! And all her quiet life receives
 The peaceful melody which round her clings;
 She walks amid suave strains and murmurings
 That never doubt or strident discord cleaves.  
  And from her singing harp she bends to grant
 My dear desire; and the poor monotone,
 That is my life, in her glad heart she takes,
 And, twining its dull phrases with her own
 Full-flowing theme of life, of both she makes
 The pæan of one love reverberant.