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4. | [IV
My Ludovico, it is sad] |
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The poems of Trumbull Stickney | ||
294
[IV
My Ludovico, it is sad]
My Ludovico, it is sad!
You 've caused your artist's soul to die.
You 've starved the very heart. And why?
It was no common heart you had.
You 've caused your artist's soul to die.
You 've starved the very heart. And why?
It was no common heart you had.
I don't say you were born above
A world of worlds; to sit and scan
In majesty Shakespearian
The man of generations move.
A world of worlds; to sit and scan
In majesty Shakespearian
The man of generations move.
I don't say you were genius. No!
But from your tender lips would fall
Delicious things, and I recall
One song that set my cheeks aglow.
But from your tender lips would fall
Delicious things, and I recall
One song that set my cheeks aglow.
Why starve it?—What, pray, have you won?
You, quick and subtle analyst,
Would take the dearest flower and twist
Its stem, and watch the juices run.
You, quick and subtle analyst,
Would take the dearest flower and twist
Its stem, and watch the juices run.
I know we all are such, of course.
It took some thousand thousand years
To make a race that liked its tears
And whetted the edges of remorse.
It took some thousand thousand years
To make a race that liked its tears
And whetted the edges of remorse.
But you, with such a soul to sing,
A large and blue and quiet eye!
I love you very little—I
Who thought you prophet, priest and king.
A large and blue and quiet eye!
295
Who thought you prophet, priest and king.
I wonder. Will the old world wake?
Are we the people of the end?
And shall the coming poets tend
[OMITTED]
Are we the people of the end?
And shall the coming poets tend
[OMITTED]
The poems of Trumbull Stickney | ||