ONCE a poet-long ago-
Wrote a song as void of art
As the songs that children know,
And as pure as a child-s heart.
With a sigh he threw it down,
Saying, -This will never shed
Any glory or renown
On my name when I am dead.

-I will sing a lordly song
Men shall hear, when I am gone,
Through the years sound clear and strong
As a golden clarion.�

So this lordly song he sang
That would gain him deathless fame-
When the death-knell o-er him rang
No man even knew its name.

Ay, and when his way he found
To the place of singing souls,
And beheld their bright heads crowned
With song-woven aureoles,

He stood shame-faced in the throng,
For his brow of wreath was bare,
And, alas! his lordly song
Sere had grown in that sweet air;

Then, all sudden, a divine
Light fell on him from afar,
And he felt the child-song shine
On his forehead like a star.

So for ever. Each and all
Songs of passion or of mirth
That are not heart-pure shall fall
As a sky-lark-s-to the earth;

But the soul-s song has no bounds-
Like the voice of Israfel,
From the heaven of heavens it sounds
To the very hell of hell.