IF ever, for a passing day, My careless rhymes shall gain to please, I would that those who read may say, "Left he no more than these?'" For sure it is a piteous thing That those blest souls to whom is given The instinct and the power to sing, The choicest gift of heaven, Not from high peak to peak alone Our faithful footsteps care to guide, But oft by plains of sand and stone, Dull wastes, and naught beside. Who the low crawling verse prolong, Careless alike of fame and time; The form, but not the soul of song -- A dreary hum of rhyme. A straight road, by a stagnant stream, Where the winged steed, which late would soar From the white summits like a dream, Creeps slowly evermore. A babble of sound, like that flat noise Which, when the harmonies grow dumb, Between the symphony's awful joys, Too oft is heard to come. Grave error; since not all of life Is rhythmic; oft by level ways We walk; the sweet creative strife, The inspired heroic days, Are rare for all, -- no food for song, Are common hours; and those who hold The gift, the inspiration strong, More precious far than gold, Only when heart is fired and brain, And the soul spreads its soaring wing, Only when nobler themes constrain, Should ever dare to sing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER MUSIC: 28 by JAMES JOYCE SONATA IN PATHOS by CONRAD AIKEN |