 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
55
THOMAS GRAY
Singer most melancholy, most austere,
So overcharged with greatness, that thy frame
Was all too frail to feed the aspiring flame,
And sank in chill disdain and secret fear,
So overcharged with greatness, that thy frame
Was all too frail to feed the aspiring flame,
And sank in chill disdain and secret fear,
Save that thy idle fingers now and then
Touched unawares a slender chord divine;
Oh, if but half the silence that was thine
Were shared to-day by clamorous minstrel-men!
Touched unawares a slender chord divine;
Oh, if but half the silence that was thine
Were shared to-day by clamorous minstrel-men!
I thread the woodland where thy feet have strayed;
The gnarled trunks dreaming out their ancient tale
Are fair as then; the same sad chime I hear
That floats at eve across the purple vale;
The music of thy speech is in my ear,
And I am glad because thou wast afraid.
The gnarled trunks dreaming out their ancient tale
Are fair as then; the same sad chime I hear
That floats at eve across the purple vale;
The music of thy speech is in my ear,
And I am glad because thou wast afraid.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |