Demand of lilies wherefore they are white, Extort her crimson secret from the rose, But ask not of the Muse that she disclose The meaning of the riddle of her might: Somewhat of all things sealed and recondite,

Save the enigma of herself, she knows. The master could not tell, with all his lore,

Wherefore he sang, or whence the mandate sped:

Even as the linnet sings, so I, he said ;-
Ah, rather as the imperial nightingale,
That held in trance the ancient Attic shore,
And charms the ages with the notes that
o'er

All woodland chants immortally prevail !
And now, from our vain plaudits greatly

fled,

He with diviner silence dwells instead,
And on no earthly sea with transient roar,
Unto no earthly airs, he trims his sail,
But far beyond our vision and our hail
Is heard forever and is seen no more.

No more, O never now,

Lord of the lofty and the tranquil brow
Whereon nor snows of time

Have fallen, nor wintry rime,

Shall men behold thee, sage and mage sublime.

Once, in his youth obscure,

The maker of this verse, which shall endure

By splendor of its theme that cannot die,
Beheld thee eye to eye,

And touched through thee the hand
Of every hero of thy race divine,

Even to the sire of all the laurelled line,
The sightless wanderer on the Ionian strand,
With soul as healthful as the poignant

brine,

The poet doth remain.

Dead is Augustus, Maro is alive;

And thou, the Mantuan of our age and clime,

Like Virgil shalt thy race and tongue survive, Bequeathing no less honeyed words to time,

Embalmed in amber of eternal rhyme, And rich with sweets from every Muse's hive;

While to the measure of the cosmic rune For purer ears thou shalt thy lyre attune, And heed no more the hum of idle praise In that great calm our tumults cannot reach,

Master who crown'st our immelodious days With flower of perfect speech.

Till he can cast this earth behind

And breathe in heaven secure.

We sing of Life, with stormy breath
That shakes the lute's distempered string:
We sing of Love, and loveless Death
Takes up the song we sing.

And born in toils of Fate's control,
Insurgent from the womb, we strive
With proud, unmanumitted soul
To burst the golden gyve.

Thy spirit knows nor bounds nor bars;
On thee no shreds of thraldom hang :
Not more enlarged, the morning stars
Their great Te Deum sang.

But I am fettered to the sod,
And but forget my bonds an hour;
In amplitude of dreams a god,
A slave in dearth of power.

And fruitless knowledge clouds my soul,
And fretful ignorance irks it more.
Thou sing'st as if thou knew'st the whole,
And lightly held'st thy lore!

I wonder, will you ever wake,
And with tired eyes again
Live for your old life's little sake
An age of joy or pain?
Shall some stern destiny control
That perfect form, wherein
I hardly see enough of soul
To make your life a sin?

For, we have heard, for all men born
One harvest-day prepares

Its golden garners for the corn,
And fire to burn the tares ;
But who shall gather into sheaves,
Or turn aside to blame

The poppies' puckered helpless leaves,
Blown bells of scarlet flame?

No hate so hard, no love so bold
To seek your bliss or woe;
You are too sweet for hell to hold,
And heaven would tire you so.
A little while your joy shall be,

And when you crave for rest
The earth shall take you utterly
Again into her breast.

And we will find a quiet place

For your still sepulchre,
And lay the flowers upon your face

Sweet as your kisses were,

And with hushed voices void of mirth Spread the light turf above,

Soft as the silk you loved on earth

As much as you could love.

Few tears, but once, our eyes shall shed,
Nor will we sigh at all,

But come and look upon your bed
When the warm sunlights fall.
Upon that grave no tree of fruit
Shall grow, nor any grain,
Only one flower of shallow root
That will not spring again.