Sonnets By Emily Pfeiffer: Revised and Enlarged Ed. |
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15
III.
Words that are idle with the songless crowd
Are as the poet's ripest deed, the fruit
And flower of all his working days, the suit
He weaves about his soul, which, if endowed
Too richly, and so called to ends more proud,
Builds with his breath a house of high repute,
Wherein he chants the office for the mute,
Appealing ones, who at his feet are bowed.
Are as the poet's ripest deed, the fruit
And flower of all his working days, the suit
He weaves about his soul, which, if endowed
Too richly, and so called to ends more proud,
Builds with his breath a house of high repute,
Wherein he chants the office for the mute,
Appealing ones, who at his feet are bowed.
Yet let the Maker mould them as he will,
A spirit that he knows not to control
Works in his words beyond his utmost skill,
Making them yield his measure, and the whole
Form of his being, be it good or ill,—
For no man's work is greater than his soul.
A spirit that he knows not to control
Works in his words beyond his utmost skill,
Making them yield his measure, and the whole
Form of his being, be it good or ill,—
For no man's work is greater than his soul.
Sonnets | ||