Evening Songs
LXI
At prophets cast ye never stones;
They are as birds, shy, clever:
Cast thou a stone at him but once,
And he is gone forever.
God’s fearful wrath the nation seeks
Whose love of bards is shaken,
And greatest wrath befell the race
From whom God songs has taken.
The poet’s heart is pure and chaste,
His faith does never vary;
Therefore, what he sings from his heart
That ye in your hearts carry!
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