 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
278
THE SONG
Speak, speak, music, and bring to me
Fancies too fleet for me,
Sweetness too sweet for me,
Wake, wake, voices, and sing to me,
Sing to me tenderly; bid me rest.
Fancies too fleet for me,
Sweetness too sweet for me,
Wake, wake, voices, and sing to me,
Sing to me tenderly; bid me rest.
Rest, Rest! ah, I am fain of it!
Die, Hope! small was my gain of it!
Song, take thy parable,
Whisper that all is well,
Say that there tarrieth
Something more true than death,
Waiting to smile for me; bright and blest.
Die, Hope! small was my gain of it!
Song, take thy parable,
Whisper that all is well,
Say that there tarrieth
Something more true than death,
Waiting to smile for me; bright and blest.
Thrill, string: echo and play for me
All that the poet, the priest cannot say for me;
Soar, voice, heavenwards, and pray for me,
Wondering, wandering; bid me rest.
All that the poet, the priest cannot say for me;
Soar, voice, heavenwards, and pray for me,
Wondering, wandering; bid me rest.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |