SONG OF SONGS by WILFRED OWEN

Sing me at dawn but only with your laugh:
  Like sprightly Spring that laugheth into leaf;
  Like Love, that cannot flute for smiling at Life.

Sing to me only with your speech all day,
  As voluble leaflets do. Let viols die.
  The least word of your lips is melody.

Sing me at dusk, but only with your sigh;
  Like lifting seas it solaceth: breathe so,
  All voicelessly, the sense that no songs say.

Sing me at midnight with your murmurous heart;
  And let its moaning like a chord be heard
  Surging through you and sobbing unsubdued.