Chamber Music


James Joyce

THOUGH I thy Mithridates were,
    Framed to defy the poison-dart,
Yet must thou fold me unaware
    To know the rapture of thy heart,
And I but render and confess
The malice of thy tenderness.

For elegant and antique phrase,
    Dearest, my lips wax all too wise;
Nor have I known a love whose praise
    Our piping poets solemnize,
Neither a love where may not be
Ever so little falsity.

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