The master-songs are ended, and the man That sang them is a name. And so is God A name; and so is love, and life, and death, And everything. -- But we, who are too blind To read what we have written, or what faith Has written for us, do not understand: We only blink, and wonder. Last night it was the song that was the man, But now it is the man that is the song. We do not hear him very much today; -- His piercing and eternal cadence rings Too pure for us -- too powerfully pure, Too lovingly triumphant, and too large; But there are some that hear him, and they know That he shall sing tomorrow for all men, And that all time shall listen. The master-songs are ended? -- Rather say No songs are ended that are ever sung, And that no names are dead names. When we write Men's letters on proud marble or on sand, We write them there forever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT I LIVE FOR by GEORGE LINNAEUS BANKS THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD: SONG by OLIVER GOLDSMITH BATTLE OF IVRY by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE by T. P. CAMERON WILSON LINES WRITTEN IN A CITY COMPOSING-ROOM by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE COLD WAVE OF 32 B.C. by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS CONCLUDING VERSES, AFTER RETURNING HOME FROM AN AUTUMNAL MORNING WALK by BERNARD BARTON |