Classic Poem

And these about me die,
Because the pain of the infinite singing
Slayeth them.
Yet that have sung of the pain of the earth-horde's
— — age-long crusading,
Ye know somewhat the strain,
— — the sad-sweet wonder-pain of such singing.
And therefore ye know after what fashion
This singing hath power destroying.

Yea, these about me, bearing such song in homage
Unto the Mover of Circles,
Die for the might of their praising,
And the autumn of their marcescent wings
Maketh ever new loam for my forest;
And these grey ash trees hold within them
All the secrets of whatso things
They dreamed before their praises,
And in this grove my flowers,
Fruit of prayerful powers,
Have first their thought of life
And then their being.

Ye marvel that I die not! forsitan!
Thinking me kin with such as may not weep,
Thinking me part of them that die for praising
— Yea, though it be praising,
Past the power of man's mortality to
Dream or name its phases,
— Yea, though it chaunt and paean
Past the might of earth-dwelt
Soul to think on,
— Yea, though it be praising
As these the winged ones die of.

Ye think me one insensate
else die I also
Sith these about me die,
And if I, watching
Ever the multiplex jewel, or beryl and jasper
— — and sapphire,
Make of these prayers of earth ever new flowers;
Marvel and wonder!
Marvel and wonder even as I,
Giving to prayer new language
And causing the words to speak
Of the earth-horde's age-lasting longing,
Even as I marvel and wonder, and know not,
Yet keep my watch in the ash wood.