THE SONG-THROE

By thine own tears thy song must tears beget,

O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast none

Except thy manifest heart; and save thine own

Anguish or ardour, else no amulet.

Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery jet

Of soulless air-flung fountains; nay, more dry

Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst and sigh,

That song o'er which no singer's lids grew wet.

The Song-god — He the Sun-god — is no slave

Of thine: thy Hunter he, who for thy soul

Fledges his shaft: to no august control

Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he gave:

But if thy lips’ loud cry leap to his smart,

The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy brother's heart.