Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/71

Rh With thy word, with thy song;

Tell the skies,

And the world, that shall listen at last!

THE POET AND HIS MASTER

day the poet's harp lay on the ground,

Tho' from it rose a strange and trembling sound

What time the wind swept over with a moan,

Or, now and then, a faint and tinkling tone

When a dead leaf fell shuddering from a tree

And shook the silent wires all tremulously;

And near it, dumb with sorrow, and alone

The poet sat. His heart was like a stone.

Then one drew near him who was robed in white:

It was the poet's master; he had given

To him that harp, once in a happy night

When every silver star that shone in heaven

Made music ne'er before was heard by mortal wight.

And thus the master spoke:

"Why is thy voice

Silent, O poet? Why upon the grass

Lies thy still harp? The fitful breezes pass

And stir the wires, but the skilled player's hand

Moves not upon them. Poet, wake! Rejoice!

Sing and arouse the melancholy land!"

Master, forbear. I may not sing to-day;

My nearest friend, the brother of my heart,

This day is stricken with sorrow; he must part

From her who loves him. Can I sing, and play

Upon the joyous harp, and mock his woe?"