Was This the Face That Loved a Thousand Things?
O thou that singst so sweet a song
Born of the joyousness of strife,
When thou sayst that, wert never wrong-
Er in thy life.
The bard who loves a thousand things
Can give himself to lofty rhyme;
He has, to smite the lyric strings,
A lot of time.
But, loveliest of the laureates,
As to thyself is surely known,
No time hath he who concentrates
Born of the joyousness of strife,
When thou sayst that, wert never wrong-
Er in thy life.
The bard who loves a thousand things
Can give himself to lofty rhyme;
He has, to smite the lyric strings,
A lot of time.
But, loveliest of the laureates,
As to thyself is surely known,
No time hath he who concentrates
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