THE FATE OF THE LYRIST
Reading edition
THE soul is ever clinging unto form; Action, not abstract thought, alone can warm The great heart of humanity—in life's fierce storm Pass they the Lyrist by.
The Dramatist may wear triumphant bays; And see the wondering people's tranc'd amaze, The while unrolls great Homer to their gaze, His gorgeous, many-coloured tapestry.
But lofty Pindar's heaven-directed flight, Petrarca's song, mystic and sad as night, Fall dull upon the common ear—their might Is to the world a mystery.
Such spirits dwell but with the spiritual— Their godlike souls disdaining to enthrall; Within the limits of the actual, Men pass, unheeding the divinity.
Their name, indeed, is echoed by the crowd; But from amidst the masses earthward bowed, Few lift the head, with kindred soul endowed, To list their Orphic melody.