Singer most melancholy, most austere, So overcharged with greatness, that thy frame Was all too frail to feed the aspiring flame, And sank in chill disdain and secret fear, Save that thy idle fingers now and then Touched unawares a slender chord divine; Oh if but half the silence that was thine Were shared to-day by clamorous minstrel men! I thread the woodland where thy feet have strayed; The gnarled trunks dreaming out their ancient tale Are fair as then; the same sad chime I hear That floats at eve across the purple vale; The music of thy speech is in my ear, And I am glad because thou wast afraid. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MIDDLETON PLACE by AMY LOWELL SURFACES AND MASKS; 7 by CLARENCE MAJOR A MAN CHILD IS BORN (1809) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LITTLE PEOPLES by CLAUDE MCKAY CORTEGE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON GOLDWING MOTH by CARL SANDBURG THE VISION by GEORGE SANTAYANA |