Classic Poem

Art , the delicate boy,
And Song, his little half-brother,
Both were children of Love;
But Song had Tears for his Mother,
And Art was issue of Joy.

Song shed on us like rain
The stream of his murmur'd story,
And Art was our masterful sun
When the morning utter'd his glory,
And the flowers drank and were fain.

Song pluckt the strings of the heart;
Crying and high possession
Held the soul as he sway'd:
The pride of the eyes and the passion
Of the stirr'd sense held Art.

Grief and the grace of speech
Song gave men from his Mother;
And Art gave laughing and joy.
But brother coveted brother
His birthright, and each grudged each.

Art had commerce with Pain;
She bit him and led him a-sinning;
And Song threw over his harp,
For he saw a Corybant grinning,
And piped to her mad refrain.

Art, the delicate boy,
And Song, his little half-brother,
Both the children of Love—
Song in blood drown'd his Mother,
And Art grew to stifle Joy.