BY THINE own tears thy song must tears beget, O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast none Except thy manifest heart; and save thine own Anguish or ardour, else no amulet. Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery jet Of soulless air-flung fountains; nay, more dry Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst and sigh, That song o'er which no singer's lids grew wet. The Song-god--He the Sun-god--is no slave Of thine: thy Hunter he, who for thy soul Fledges his shaft: to no august control Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he gave: But if thy lips' loud cry leap to his smart, The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy brother's heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TENTH MUSE: THE VANITY OF ALL WORLDLY THINGS by ANNE BRADSTREET A WOMAN'S LOVE by JOHN MILTON HAY ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRUTLI by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS MY VALENTINE by ERNEST CAMP JR. |