The master-songs are ended, and the man <br />That sang them is a name. And so is God <br />A name; and so is love, and life, and death, <br />And everything. But we, who are too blind <br />To read what we have written, or what faith <br />Has written for us, do not understand: <br />We only blink, and wonder. <br /> <br />Last night it was the song that was the man, <br />But now it is the man that is the song. <br />We do not hear him very much to-day: <br />His piercing and eternal cadence rings <br />Too pure for us --- too powerfully pure, <br />Too lovingly triumphant, and too large; <br />But there are some that hear him, and they know <br />That he shall sing to-morrow for all men, <br />And that all time shall listen. <br /> <br />The master-songs are ended? Rather say <br />No songs are ended that are ever sung, <br />And that no names are dead names. When we write <br />Men's letters on proud marble or on sand, <br />We write them there forever.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/walt-whitman/
