Speak!

WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
; ; ;Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
; ; ;Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant--
; ; ;Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
; ; ;For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
; ; ;A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
; ; ;Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow
; ; ;'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
; ; ;Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!