By thine own tears thy song must tears beget, <br />O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast none <br />Except thy manifest heart; and save thine own <br />Anguish or ardour, else no amulet. <br />Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery jet <br />Of soulless air-flung fountains; nay, more dry <br />Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst and sigh, <br />That song o'er which no singer's lids grew wet. <br />The Song-god—He the Sun-god—is no slave <br />Of thine; thy Hunter he, who for thy soul <br />Fledges his shaft: to no august control <br />Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he gave: <br />But if thy lips' loud cry leap to his smart, <br />The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy brother's heart.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxi-the-song-throe/
