Page:Plays in Prose and Verse (1922).djvu/91

Rh Even in anger, like the strings of harps; And how could they be born to majesty If I had never made the golden cradle?

[throwing himself at 's feet]. Why did you take me from my father’s fields? If you would leave me now, what shall I love? Where shall I go? What shall I set my hand to? And why have you put music in my ears, If you would send me to the clattering houses? I will throw down the trumpet and the harp, For how could I sing verses or make music With none to praise me, and a broken heart? . What was it that the poets promised you, If it was not their sorrow? Do not speak. Have I not opened school on these bare steps, And are not you the youngest of my scholars? And I would have all know that when all falls In ruin, poetry calls out in joy, Being the scattering hand, the bursting pod, The victim’s joy among the holy flame, God’s laughter at the shattering of the world. And now that joy laughs out, and weeps and burns On these bare steps.

. O master, do not die! . Trouble him with no useless argument. Be silent! There is nothing we can do