 | English Roses |  |
BLUE ROSES.
I toiled for many hopeless years,
And wrought of love my labour;
I put my life into my lute
And mingled it with happy tears,
Though often I was sad and mute
Beneath the tavern tabor;
I suffered sore and waited long,
And then mid splendid faiths and fears
Beheld the unequal crown of song
Go to a lucky neighbour;
Though I had served and sorrowed much,
And knew the master's tone and touch.
And wrought of love my labour;
I put my life into my lute
And mingled it with happy tears,
Though often I was sad and mute
Beneath the tavern tabor;
I suffered sore and waited long,
And then mid splendid faiths and fears
Beheld the unequal crown of song
Go to a lucky neighbour;
Though I had served and sorrowed much,
And knew the master's tone and touch.
The prize was for the brawler's head,
And to the coarsest clamour;
The humble tune, the quiet air
Which had the falling roseleaf's tread
And hardly guessed it could be fair
Nor dreamed of its own glamour,
Was flouted by the idle jest;
And music that was doomed and dead
And babblers in all honour drest,
Exhausting even their grammar
And language stores to make it much—
Though mine the master's tone and touch.
And to the coarsest clamour;
The humble tune, the quiet air
Which had the falling roseleaf's tread
And hardly guessed it could be fair
Nor dreamed of its own glamour,
Was flouted by the idle jest;
And music that was doomed and dead
And babblers in all honour drest,
Exhausting even their grammar
And language stores to make it much—
Though mine the master's tone and touch.
But still I sang my humble lays
And wove the fires of summer
And every flower into my lines,
And gathered on my sober ways
The hues and scents from secret mines
Unknown to the mere mummer;
I mixed the madness of the spring
With red and gold of Autumn days
And passion of the wild bird's wing,
Undreamed of by the strummer;
For, though the triflers praised him much,
I kept the master's tone and touch.
And wove the fires of summer
And every flower into my lines,
425
The hues and scents from secret mines
Unknown to the mere mummer;
I mixed the madness of the spring
With red and gold of Autumn days
And passion of the wild bird's wing,
Undreamed of by the strummer;
For, though the triflers praised him much,
I kept the master's tone and touch.
And thus the years went slowly by,
That make and break and mellow,
But deal to all their judgment due
And heed no passing crown or cry;
They found at length my roses blue,
Amid the sere and yellow.
And then they marked, with final meed,
The fashion of eternity
Within the lowly living seed—
Not in the vulgar fellow;
And while the ignorant mocked me much,
I breathed the master's tone and touch.
That make and break and mellow,
But deal to all their judgment due
And heed no passing crown or cry;
They found at length my roses blue,
Amid the sere and yellow.
And then they marked, with final meed,
The fashion of eternity
Within the lowly living seed—
Not in the vulgar fellow;
And while the ignorant mocked me much,
I breathed the master's tone and touch.
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