/ / Her tears made dulcet fretting,
/ / Her voice it had no word,
/ / More than thunder or the bird.
/ / Yet, unforgetting,
The ravished soul her meanings knew. Mine ears
/ / / / / / / heard not, and I heard.

/ / Lend me, O lend me
/ / The terrors of that sound,
/ / That its music may attend me.
/ / Wrap my chant in thunders round;
While I tell the ancient secrets in my Lady's
/ / / / / / / singing found.

/ / Her song that said no springing
/ / Paradise but for evermore,
/ / It hangeth on a singing
/ / That has chords of weeping,
/ / And that sings the after-sleeping
/ / To souls which wake too sore.
'But woe the singer, woe!' she said; 'beyond the
/ / / / / / / perished singing-lore,
/ / All its art of sweet and sore,
/ / He learns, in Elenore!'

/ / Where is the land of Luthany,
/ / Where is the tract of Elenore?
/ / Raise forth the gate of the garden-path
/ / I am bound therefor.




*(taking liberties with the last stanza there... :)