MASQUE OF POETS.
A SONG BEFORE SINGING.
SING! sing of what? The world is full of song;
And all the singing seems but echoed notes
Of the great masters who, when souls were strong,
Rolled sturdy paeans from rejoicing throats.
Or worse than echoes, schemes of tinkling sound,
The pilfered phrases of the melodist,
A bastard music, a tenth Muse discrowned,
A light bewildered in a blinding mist.
I would not dabble on the brink of power,
Shape airy nothings, dreaming of a dream,
Chime word with word, and pipe to catch the hour,
But plunge, aim-certain, in the living stream.
