The Poet
Nor could he rest, nor weep, nor pray—
Only a company of mimes
Fantastical—in strange array—
His lips would summon forth at times,
Dim hosts of feebly-fashioned rhymes.
Only a company of mimes
Fantastical—in strange array—
His lips would summon forth at times,
Dim hosts of feebly-fashioned rhymes.
Yet once his soul with splendid fire
Broke every bond and fettering cord—
Beyond the reach of all desire
Sprang, as from out its sheath, a sword,
And clove the Heavens with a word.
Broke every bond and fettering cord—
Beyond the reach of all desire
Sprang, as from out its sheath, a sword,
And clove the Heavens with a word.
No conscious music filled his soul—
Nor trembled on his lips—he grew
Beyond the reach of all control—
A hollow vase, from which men drew
God's wine, and nothing further knew.
Nor trembled on his lips—he grew
Beyond the reach of all control—
A hollow vase, from which men drew
God's wine, and nothing further knew.
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