II
Can it be it is they who make merry, 't is they taunting him?
Shall the sun, then, be scorned by the planets, the tree by the limb!
These bardlings, these mimics, these echoes, these shadows at play,
While he only is real;—they shine but as motes in his day!
III
All that in them is best is from him; all they know he has taught;
But one secret he never could teach, and they never have caught—
The soul of his songs, that goes sighing like wind through the reeds,
And thrills men, and moves them to terror, to prayer, and to deeds.
IV
Has the old poet failed, then—the singer forgotten his art?
Why, 't was he who once startled the world with a cry from his heart;
And he held it entranced in a life-song, all music, all love;
If now it grow faint and grow still, they have called him above.
V
Ah, never again shall we hear such fierce music and sweet—
Surely never from you, ye who mock, for his footstool unmeet;
