August

The Singers

One, blind, has taught how beauty should be sung; One, deaf, all silence turned to music sweet;

From one who wandered homeless in the street A rapturous, deathless song of home was rung. How many a pæan of victory has sprung

From pallid lips, grown nerveless with defeat? How many empty hearts must sadly greet Their own love-songs on happier lovers' tongue? As some rare fabrics are in darkness wrought Lest light should mar the dainty web, so, too,

The poet, with a golden thread of thought, Weaves in the shade his fancies fine and true. So from his sorrow is your pleasure brought, The joy he hath not doth he give to you!

Susan Warr Spalding