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THE AWFUL seers of old, who wrote in words Like drops of blood great thoughts that through the night Of ages burn, as eyes of lions light Deep jungle-dusks; who smote with songs like swords The soul of man on its most secret chords, And made the heart of him a harp to smite,— Where are they? where that old man lorn of sight, The king of song among these laurelled lords? But where are all the ancient singing-spheres That burst through chaos like the summer’s breath Through ice-bound seas where never seaman steers? Burnt out. Gone down. No star remembereth These stars and seers well-silenced through the years— The songless years of everlasting death. |