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. |