 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
350
“WORDS, WORDS, WORDS”
TO ONE WHO FLOUTED THEM AS VAIN
I
Am I not weary of them as your heart
Or ever Hamlet's was?—the empty ones,
Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow tones
That idle winds to broken reeds impart.
Or ever Hamlet's was?—the empty ones,
Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow tones
That idle winds to broken reeds impart.
Have they not cursed my life?—sounds I mistook
For sacred verities,—love, faith, delight,
And the sweet tales that women tell at night,
When darkness hides the falsehood of the look.
For sacred verities,—love, faith, delight,
And the sweet tales that women tell at night,
When darkness hides the falsehood of the look.
I was the one of all Ulysses' crew
(What time he stopped their ears) that leaped and fled
Unto the sirens, for the honey-dew
(What time he stopped their ears) that leaped and fled
Unto the sirens, for the honey-dew
Of their dear songs. The poets me have fed
With the same poisoned fruit. And even you,—
Did you not pluck them for me in days dead?
With the same poisoned fruit. And even you,—
Did you not pluck them for me in days dead?
II
Nay, they do bear a blessing and a power,—
Great words and true, that bridge from soul to soul
The awful cloud-depths that betwixt us roll.
I will not have them so blasphemed. This hour,
This little hour of life, this lean to-day,—
What were it worth but for those mighty dreams
That sweep from down the past on sounding streams
Of such high-thoughted words as poets say?
Great words and true, that bridge from soul to soul
The awful cloud-depths that betwixt us roll.
I will not have them so blasphemed. This hour,
351
What were it worth but for those mighty dreams
That sweep from down the past on sounding streams
Of such high-thoughted words as poets say?
What, but for Shakespeare's and for Homer's lay,
And bards whose sacred names all lips repeat?
Words,—only words; yet, save for tongue and pen
And bards whose sacred names all lips repeat?
Words,—only words; yet, save for tongue and pen
Of those great givers of them unto men,
And burdens they still bear of grave or sweet,
This world were but for beasts, a darkling den.
And burdens they still bear of grave or sweet,
This world were but for beasts, a darkling den.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |