Classic Poem

When the song is done,
And his heart is ashes,
Never praise the singer
Whom you, silent, heard.
What to him the sound?
What your eyes' fond flashes?
When the singing's over
Say no word!

Ye who darkling stood,
Think, your noon of praises,
Can it glimmer down
To his deepset bower?
Never round him shone
Once your garden mazes;
Now his wandering's over,
Bring no flower!