Threading some bitter marsh, obscure, alone,

That bears an emperor's fleets through half a zone:

And pitch its voice to the same ocean's tone.

 

 

   THE SINGER OF ONE SONG 

 He sang one song and died—no more but that: A single song and carelessly complete. He would not bind and thresh his chance-grown wheat, Nor bring his wild fruit to the common vat, To store the acid rinsings, thin and flat, Squeezed from the press or trodden under feet. A few slow beads, blood-red and honey sweet, Oozed from the grape, which burst and spilled its fat. But Time, who soonest drops the heaviest things That weight his pack, will carry diamonds long. So through the poet's orchestra, which weaves One music from a thousand stops and strings, Pierces the note of that immortal song:— "High over all the lonely bugle grieves." 

A single song and carelessly complete.

He would not bind and thresh his chance-grown wheat,

Squeezed from the press or trodden under feet.

A few slow beads, blood-red and honey sweet,

That weight his pack, will carry diamonds long.

So through the poet's orchestra, which weaves

Pierces the note of that immortal song:—

"High over all the lonely bugle grieves."

 

 Prev. P 26/43 next