Who handles words as he did? All their grace And power and brilliance at his subtle touch They yielded up. Oh, bitter to spare such A craftsman—leaving for his lofty place No understudy! How his vivid lines Spring from grey pages as a tiger springs From dull bleached grass! or as an oriole wings Flame-bright among brown sparrows in the vines. Why would he cheat us of our human right To beauty he could fashion? Why would he forfeit further singing years? What fears, what pang, what passion Compelled that quick relief? What grief, what bane, what care, What dominant despair, Scourged him to force the gate? Could he not wait The certain comfort of the punctual sun— The face of friends? Give living one more trial? No—no—when life too flagrantly offends, The small swift tool—the vial! But who will understand, who grant him shrift For stealing from us with his golden gift? Ah, we! We who have battled through the pit-black hour And yet retained Some taper light. All those Who have lifted the dark draught—and yet abstained. Such, grieving for the lyric volume closed, Respect the awful history of a night— The silence self-imposed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 2 by THOMAS CAMPION BEFORE SEDAN by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: PICTURE-WRITING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY [OR, DAFFYDOWNDILLY] by MOTHER GOOSE |