“BEHOLD another singer!” Criton said,
And sneered, and in his sneering turned the leaf:
“Who reads the poets now? They are past and dead:
Give me for their vain work unrhymed relief.”
A laugh went round. Meanwhile the last ripe sheaf
Of corn was garnered, and the summer birds
Stilled their dear notes, while autumn’s voice of grief
Rang through the fields, and wept the gathered herds.
Then in despair men murmured: “Is this all,—
To fade and die within this narrow ring?
Where are the singers, with their hearts aflame,
To tell again what those of old let fall,—
How to decaying worlds fresh promise came,
And how our angels in the night-time sing?