Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.

Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.

Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.

Deemest thou laborOnly is earnest?Grave is all beauty,Solemn is joy.

She is not old, she is not young, The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue. The haggard cheek, the hungering eye, The poisoned words that wildly fly, The famished face, the fevered hand, Who slights the worthiest in the land, Sneers at the just, contemns the brave, And blackens goodness in its grave.

A dreamer of the common dreams, A fisher in familiar streams, He chased the transitory gleams That all pursue; But on his lips the eternal themes Again were new.

In this world with starry dome,Floored with gemlike plains and seas,Shall I never feel at home,Never wholly be at ease?