Classic Poem

The poet, victor over words,
Coy wayward things,
Deems he can snare the stars, those gold-plumed birds,
Because he sings!

He dreams of endless conquest, he —
While others plod
He must win thunder-music from the sea,
Epics from God.

The fragrance of the lips of June
In sunlit dales
His song must steal. The slender white-breast moon
His hand unveils.

Because one hour of mortal breath
He makes sublime,
His fond heart dreams of victory over death
And space, and time.
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And woman most of all he dreams
His song can hold;
As Orpheus lured the nymphs from silent streams
With harp of gold.

Her, chainless, full of force and charm
Whom gods have sought
In vain, the singer dreams he can disarm
By one winged thought.

Whom centuries fail to understand
He, strong to dare,
Dreams he can win, and lay a conqueror's hand
On sun-crowned hair.

In vain, in vain, O singer proud!
No songs disthrone,
The free heart yields, the sovereign head is bowed
To love alone.