 | [A song before singing, in] A masque of poets |  |
11
A SONG BEFORE SINGING.
Sing! sing of what? The world is full of song;
And all the singing seems but echoed notes
Of the great masters who, when souls were strong,
Rolled sturdy pæans from rejoicing throats.
And all the singing seems but echoed notes
Of the great masters who, when souls were strong,
Rolled sturdy pæans from rejoicing throats.
Or worse than echoes, schemes of tinkling sound,
The pilfered phrases of the melodist,
A bastard music, a tenth Muse discrowned,
A light bewildered in a blinding mist.
The pilfered phrases of the melodist,
A bastard music, a tenth Muse discrowned,
A light bewildered in a blinding mist.
I would not dabble on the brink of power,
Shape airy nothings, dreaming of a dream,
Chime word with word, and pipe to catch the hour,
But plunge, aim-certain, in the living stream.
Shape airy nothings, dreaming of a dream,
Chime word with word, and pipe to catch the hour,
But plunge, aim-certain, in the living stream.
12
Give me a theme to sing in man's behoof,
As full of purpose as my faith, O God!—
Red with our life-blood, firm in warp and woof,
A homely product of the common sod.
As full of purpose as my faith, O God!—
Red with our life-blood, firm in warp and woof,
A homely product of the common sod.
Or else, let silence and primeval night
Reign, as God reigned within his holy dark,
Eons on eons, till he called the light,
And the first poet wakened with the lark.
Reign, as God reigned within his holy dark,
Eons on eons, till he called the light,
And the first poet wakened with the lark.
| [A song before singing, in] A masque of poets | |