NARCISSI
V.
"A foolish tale," they said, and closed the book,
And parted to their tasks. The poet went
And sought his couch, while the world softly took
Away its noisy ache and merriment,
And he, brooding above his spirit pool,
Admiring his own rhymes, his singing gift,
Plunged himself headlong down into the cool
Depths where the hidden inner waters drift,
Then rose, and then again adventured far,
Until life ended, and where he had been
His flower of song shone like a new-spun star,
Lighting the tuneless darkness men were in,
Purple with his heart's cry, and mellow white
With his insistent summons to delight.
"A foolish tale," they said, and closed the book,
And parted to their tasks. The poet went
And sought his couch, while the world softly took
Away its noisy ache and merriment,
And he, brooding above his spirit pool,
Admiring his own rhymes, his singing gift,
Plunged himself headlong down into the cool
Depths where the hidden inner waters drift,
Then rose, and then again adventured far,
Until life ended, and where he had been
His flower of song shone like a new-spun star,
Lighting the tuneless darkness men were in,
Purple with his heart's cry, and mellow white
With his insistent summons to delight.
VI.
So the musician plumbed his spirit's well,
Whose brooding bosom rippled into song,
Which blossomed after he had gone, to tell
His joy and sorrow to the cowed, dumb throng.
The sculptor sought into his own loved dreaming
The way to wake dead marble into breath,
So the musician plumbed his spirit's well,
Whose brooding bosom rippled into song,
Which blossomed after he had gone, to tell
His joy and sorrow to the cowed, dumb throng.
The sculptor sought into his own loved dreaming
The way to wake dead marble into breath,
48
