What makes you move moon-eyed among the haunts Of men, thinking your singing steps are heard Above the roar of Trade, the tinkling taunts Of Gold? Your cloudy dream, like a too soft curd, Rises perilously from a bitter whey; Your wee song drips as softly as summer rain Into the clamorous sea; and the things you say, Like bright soap-bubbles, float bravely, nor deign To honor the dusty air that lets them rise Before it shatters their frail bloom. The air Is careless of your scorn. And in men's eyes There is no knowing of the flight you dare. Where you have passed, the city's smoke and grime Has buried your singing steps, and choked your rhyme. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: FINDING OF THE BODY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL THE WANTS OF MAN by JOHN QUINCY ADAMS OBERMANN ONCE MORE by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE SPELL OF THE YUKON by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE STANZAS IN THE MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN, ESQ. by MATTHEW ARNOLD TO MR. WILLIAM BASSE UPON THE NOW PUBLISHING OF HIS POEMS by RALPH BATHURST |