Raise theirs to drown my song.

Must I then sing aloud,

Faint as a bird,

And, like a bird, be proud

To sing—to sing unheard?

Weary and very weak,

Shall I then seek

A hearing, idiot-wise,

From the unhearing skies?

Drowning my whispered dreams,

Great voices cry.

They sing their songs, it seems,

With better heart than I.

Hush—I can hear Death sing—

“Here is my sting.”

And the Grave echo—“See,

Here is my victory“

To-night the heavens bend

A little nearer.

The singer is my friend,

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