THE SINGER
A little while, with love and youth,
He wandered, singing:—
He felt life's pulses hot and strong
Beat all his rapid veins along;
He wrought life's rhythms into song:
He laughed, he sang the Dawn!
So close, so close to life he dwelt
That at rare times and rapt he felt
The fleshly barriers yield and melt;
He trembled, looking on
Creation at her miracles;
His soul-sight pierced the earthly shells
And saw the spirit weave its spells,
The veil of clay withdrawn;—
A little while, with love and youth,
He wandered, singing!
A little while, with age and death,
He wanders, dreaming;—
No more the thunder and the urge
Of earth's full tides that storm the verge
Of heaven with their sweep and surge
Shall lift, shall bear him on;
Where is the golden hope that led
Him comrade with the mighty dead?
The love that aureoled his head?—
The glory is withdrawn!
How shall one soar with broken wings?
The leaguèd might of futile things
Wars with the heart that dares and sings;—
It is not always Dawn!
A little while, with age and death,
He wanders, dreaming.