The awful seers of old who wrote, in words <br />Like drops of blood, great thoughts that through the night <br />Of ages burn, as eyes of lions light <br />Deep jungle-dusks; who smote with songs like swords <br />The soul of man on its most secret chords, <br />And made the heart of him a harp to smite-- <br />Where are they? Where that old man lorn of sight, <br />The king of song among these laurelled lords? <br />But where are all the ancient singing-spheres <br />That burst through chaos like the summer's breath <br />Through ice-bound seas where never seaman steers? <br />Burnt out. Gone down. No star remembereth <br />These stars and seers well-silenced through the years-- <br />The songless years of everlasting death.<br /><br />Victor James Daley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-20/
