 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
113
THE DEAD POET
The child that leans his ear beside the shell,
Grows grave to hear the multitudinous roar,
Remembered echoes of the pulsing swell
That sets from shore to shore;
Grows grave to hear the multitudinous roar,
Remembered echoes of the pulsing swell
That sets from shore to shore;
But heeds not that the cool and rosy rim
Once bulged with shuddering growth of beard and horn,
That pushed with loathly grasp about the dim
Untrodden caves forlorn:
Once bulged with shuddering growth of beard and horn,
That pushed with loathly grasp about the dim
Untrodden caves forlorn:
That day by day from ooze and weltering slime
Built up his filmy chambers, cell by cell,
Yet only schemed to shelter for a time
His shrinking softness well.
Built up his filmy chambers, cell by cell,
Yet only schemed to shelter for a time
His shrinking softness well.
My poet, thus I drink thy dreaming soul,
I scan the self-wrought fabric line by line,
I mark the mounting music surge and roll,
Inviolate, divine;
I scan the self-wrought fabric line by line,
I mark the mounting music surge and roll,
Inviolate, divine;
Yet when thy weary eyes grew hard in death,
The busy crowd laid hands upon thy bones,
They probed the impulse of thy lightest breath,
And analysed thy groans;
The busy crowd laid hands upon thy bones,
They probed the impulse of thy lightest breath,
And analysed thy groans;
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With down-drawn lips, where lurked a curious smile,
They traced the devious error of thy days;
They said, We will be strong and stern awhile,
Before we dare to praise.
They traced the devious error of thy days;
They said, We will be strong and stern awhile,
Before we dare to praise.
They ask by what dark alchemy he drew
So sweet a savour from so rank a root,
So while the yeasty slander worked and grew,
I sighed irresolute.
So sweet a savour from so rank a root,
So while the yeasty slander worked and grew,
I sighed irresolute.
I thank thee, O my poet! What thou art
Is mine, and what thou wert is not for me;
Perchance the very sin that clutched thy heart,
Thy fruitless agony,
Is mine, and what thou wert is not for me;
Perchance the very sin that clutched thy heart,
Thy fruitless agony,
Winged most the soaring spirit: hadst not erred,
Thou hadst not raged the dragging mire to shun
With battling pinion, as the lowliest bird
Sails nearest to the sun:
Thou hadst not raged the dragging mire to shun
With battling pinion, as the lowliest bird
Sails nearest to the sun:
I take the airy structure, lean my ear
Beside it, and the wizard echoes roll;
My heart grows clean and I forget to fear,
O thou imperious soul!
Beside it, and the wizard echoes roll;
My heart grows clean and I forget to fear,
O thou imperious soul!
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |