THE SONG OF THE BANJO
83
Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof—
I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof—
I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake
When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?
With my 'Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!'
[Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]
But the word—the word is mine, when the order moves the line
And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.
The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre—
[O the blue below the little fisher huts!]
That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire,
Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!
