“THE SEVEN-STRINGED MOUNTAIN LUTE”
Reading edition
“Homer, Sappho, Anacreon, Pindar, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, the very names are a song.”—M. C. M.
I knew, no matter how they plucked at me Like golden fingers—all those cadenced names— That never could I answer; for the power Of their majestic harmonies was perfect flower. No greater song, nor lovelier verse could be Unless Greece lived another golden hour. I tried to echo them. I vainly sought Timid expression of their rhythmic fire; My melodies with halting effort caught Faintly their classic motive and desire. Yet, while I failed, a miracle was wrought, Themselves did sing! Thus, humble, I was taught These names that are the plectrum and the lyre.