Classic Poem

Tired with the day's monotony of dreamed joys
I turn to a requickening voice,
A voice whose low tone devastates with nightly thrill
The cities I have wrought at will:
Stone forts depart, and armies heroic flee away
Like the wild snow of spray.
Deep down the green Broceliande's branch'd corridors
That voice of April pours;
Light as a bird's light shadow fled across my pages
A touch disturbs the ages,
And the crags and spears of Troy and the courts of Charlemain,
Odin, and the splendid strain
Of Cuchullain's self, that with his heart's high brother strove, —
Fade, at the low voice I love!