 | Collected poems |  |
438
TO ONE WHO BIDS ME SING
“The straw is too old to make pipes of.”
—Don Quixote.
You ask a “many-winter'd” Bard
Where hides his old vocation?
I'll give—the answer is not hard—
A classic explanation.
Where hides his old vocation?
I'll give—the answer is not hard—
A classic explanation.
“Immortal” though he be, he still,
Tithonus-like, grows older,
While she, his Muse of Pindus Hill,
Still bares a youthful shoulder.
Tithonus-like, grows older,
While she, his Muse of Pindus Hill,
Still bares a youthful shoulder.
Could that too-sprightly Nymph but leave
Her ageless grace and beauty,
They might, betwixt them both, achieve
A hymn de Senectute;
Her ageless grace and beauty,
They might, betwixt them both, achieve
A hymn de Senectute;
But She—She can't grow gray; and so,
Her slave, whose hairs are falling,
Must e'en his Doric flute forego,
And seek some graver calling,—
Her slave, whose hairs are falling,
Must e'en his Doric flute forego,
And seek some graver calling,—
Not ill-content to stand aside,
To yield to minstrels fitter
His singing-robes, his singing-pride,
His fancies sweet—and bitter!
To yield to minstrels fitter
His singing-robes, his singing-pride,
His fancies sweet—and bitter!
| Collected poems | |