 | The book of the dead |  |
139
[LXVI. If all this passion run to waste]
If all this passion run to waste,
And leave no seed upon the land,
And scornful men pass by in haste
The painful culture of my hand;
And leave no seed upon the land,
And scornful men pass by in haste
The painful culture of my hand;
And like some monstrous natural thing,
That leaves no kindred progeny,
The wild, disordered songs I sing
Lapse into mere nonentity;—
That leaves no kindred progeny,
The wild, disordered songs I sing
Lapse into mere nonentity;—
'Twere vain and false denial then,
To laugh, and innocently say,
More harm is in the piping wren
Than in my ballads' whole array.
To laugh, and innocently say,
More harm is in the piping wren
Than in my ballads' whole array.
My bitter song is not unheard;
The thoughtful angels listening sit;
I tremble on from word to word;
For shall I not be judged by it?
The thoughtful angels listening sit;
I tremble on from word to word;
For shall I not be judged by it?
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