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Show T X " " The Song 1 Dare Not Sing. (By Melville Thursted, in Broadway Magazine.) I have made a song that I dare not sing, But croon below my breath; The song I have made is a pretty thing Sweet as the lips of death. In the dark of the night the lilt runs right Like gentle dreams the tune; But naked the rhyme as the march of time In the hot, white space of noon. If the woman laughed, should I sing my song? I stand at the door of pain; And what should I care that she did me wrong If her love but lived again? If her arms were wide I would cast aside The wrong she did to me: And my song would go, like a beaten foe, Scattered on every sea. If the woman cried, should my song be heard ? Her tears are ghosts of gold; H Her glorious hair is a jeweled word H That has never yet been told. Full hard was the toil, and dear is the spoil H My song is like a flame; H But the song would break for her old love's sake If now in tears she came. I am all afraid of the song I made, Kg Hard as a tight-stretched cord; And a bitter song1 for a woman's wrong Cuts like an angry sword. My song of the night I never will sing; Dear are the wind and sea; And the roads are kind, till at last I find She calls again for me.a |