Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.
In this world with starry dome,Floored with gemlike plains and seas,Shall I never feel at home,Never wholly be at ease?
Empires dissolve and peoples disappear, song passes not away.
Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.
We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.
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.