ONCE a poet—long ago— <br /> Wrote a song as void of art <br />As the songs that children know, <br /> And as pure as a child’s heart. <br />With a sigh he threw it down, <br /> Saying, “This will never shed <br />Any glory or renown <br /> On my name when I am dead. <br /> <br />“I will sing a lordly song <br /> Men shall hear, when I am gone, <br />Through the years sound clear and strong <br /> As a golden clarion.” <br /> <br />So this lordly song he sang <br /> That would gain him deathless fame— <br />When the death-knell o’er him rang <br /> No man even knew its name. <br /> <br />Ay, and when his way he found <br /> To the place of singing souls, <br />And beheld their bright heads crowned <br /> With song-woven aureoles, <br /> <br />He stood shame-faced in the throng, <br /> For his brow of wreath was bare, <br />And, alas! his lordly song <br /> Sere had grown in that sweet air; <br /> <br />Then, all sudden, a divine <br /> Light fell on him from afar, <br />And he felt the child-song shine <br /> On his forehead like a star. <br /> <br />So for ever. Each and all <br /> Songs of passion or of mirth <br />That are not heart-pure shall fall <br /> As a sky-lark’s—to the earth; <br /> <br />But the soul’s song has no bounds— <br /> Like the voice of Israfel, <br />From the heaven of heavens it sounds <br /> To the very hell of hell.<br /><br />Victor James Daley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/amaranth/
