WOULD I WERE A POET.
191
Yet not reluctantly, if but, relying
Upon the value of the gift it brings,
Its last hopes are, like the sweet swan's, when dying,
To make its last the sweetest song it sings.
Upon the value of the gift it brings,
Its last hopes are, like the sweet swan's, when dying,
To make its last the sweetest song it sings.
Like one high-mounted on the funeral pyre,
Bound to the body of the senseless dead,
While all around him rise up flames of fire
And words of dark significance are said;
So stands the poet in his hour of trial,
With none to save him from the funeral pile;
Well knowing that entreaty were denial,
He faces death with an accusing smile.
Bound to the body of the senseless dead,
While all around him rise up flames of fire
And words of dark significance are said;
So stands the poet in his hour of trial,
With none to save him from the funeral pile;
Well knowing that entreaty were denial,
He faces death with an accusing smile.
