World and Poet
“S ING for us, poet, for our hearts are broken!
Sing us a song of happy, happy love!
Sing of the joy that words leave all unspoken!
The lilt and laughter of life—Oh, sing thereof!
Oh, sing of life, for we are sick and dying!
Oh, sing of love, for all our love is dead!
Oh, sing of laughter, for we know but sighing!
Oh, sing of kissing, for we kill instead!”
How should he sing of happy love, I pray,
Who drank Love's cup of anguish long ago?
How should he sing of life and joy and day,
Who whispers death to end his night of woe?
And yet the poet took his lyre and sang
Till all the dales with happy echoes rang.
Sing us a song of happy, happy love!
Sing of the joy that words leave all unspoken!
The lilt and laughter of life—Oh, sing thereof!
Oh, sing of life, for we are sick and dying!
Oh, sing of love, for all our love is dead!
Oh, sing of laughter, for we know but sighing!
Oh, sing of kissing, for we kill instead!”
How should he sing of happy love, I pray,
Who drank Love's cup of anguish long ago?
How should he sing of life and joy and day,
Who whispers death to end his night of woe?
And yet the poet took his lyre and sang
Till all the dales with happy echoes rang.
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