God, eldest of Poets.
Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.
Hate and mistrust are the children of blindness.
Song is not Truth, not Wisdom, but the rose Upon Truths lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes.
In this world with starry dome,Floored with gemlike plains and seas,Shall I never feel at home,Never wholly be at ease?
The after-silence, when the feast is o'er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.