 | Poems with Fables in Prose |  |
164
What Bids me Leave . . .
What bids me leave thee long untouch'd, my lute,
Hanging so dusty, still and mute?
Too many dreams behind these worn eyes throng,
And sight too great for song.
Hanging so dusty, still and mute?
Too many dreams behind these worn eyes throng,
And sight too great for song.
When I was young how quick thy passions pour'd—
Wave on wave, chord on chord—
All simple wingèd transport and high strain
Of Earth made Heaven again.
Wave on wave, chord on chord—
All simple wingèd transport and high strain
Of Earth made Heaven again.
But I have seen the world, for all its wit,
Dangling on fire over the pit;
And I must dream what taught our dreamless dead
To save Man by a thread.
Dangling on fire over the pit;
And I must dream what taught our dreamless dead
To save Man by a thread.
| Poems with Fables in Prose | |