What if the song is sung, I say, As long as the song was sung! Did we not meet with the blood’s best play The lash of the winds and the rain that stung, And the tang of the salty spray? Did we not drink the last drop that clung To the golden bowl with its glowing fire, Yet so cool to our burning tongue? Did we not love with a love entire That made up for all and a world of clay In a moment of wild desire? What if the song is sung, I say, As long as the song was sung! As a Still Brook As a still brook within the woodland’s green Sings softly to itself the live-long day, Unconscious of its gentle roundelay, Its open purity and silver sheen— Knowing not how in all that wild demesne, Its music is a strain the angels play
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