THERE is delight in singing, though none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, though the praiser sit alone And see the praised far off him, far above. Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walked along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE NOTHING II by HAYDEN CARRUTH THREE SONNETS by RICHARD WILBUR COMPANIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CHAMBER MUSIC: 9 by JAMES JOYCE EIGHTEEN-DOLLAR TAXI TRIP TO TIZAPAN AND BACK TO CHAPALA by CLARENCE MAJOR I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU' by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE BEAST OF BURDEN by MARIANNE MOORE |