“You will find the heart of the world some day

And the why of the things that be;

You will see the grief of the yea and nay

And the price of frailty.

“And upon your lute you will weave a theme

Which the world will harken and know;

For every note of the song will teem

With a great soul’s overflow—

You will speak the meaning within a dream

And the pain in the afterglow.

“But for all of this there’s a price—

’Tis the price of minstrelsy—

You will never have of the things you play,

Sad singer of poetry,

And throughout your life you will go for aye,

Heart-hungry and silently!”

I heard a voice from the far away

Softly say this to me.

April

Throughout the vale again Narcissus cries

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