Into the golden vessel of great song 
Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast 
Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; 
Not we,--articulate, so, but with the tongue 
Of all the world: the churning blood, the long 
shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed 
Sharply together upon the escaping guest, 
The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong. 
Longing alone is singer to the lute; 
Let still on nettles in the open sigh 
The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute 
As any man, and love be far and high, 
That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit 
Found on the ground by every passer-by. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay
From Second April