| |
1917
(To Lyde of the Music Halls)
WHAT boots it on the Gods to call? | |
| Since, answered or unheard, | |
| We perish with the Gods and all | |
| Things made—except the Word. | |
| |
| Ere certain Fate had touched a heart | 5 |
| By fifty years made cold, | |
| I judged thee, Lyde, and thy art | |
| O’erblown and over-bold. | |
| |
| But he—but he, of whom bereft | |
| I suffer vacant days— | 10 |
| He on his shield not meanly left— | |
| He cherished all thy lays. | |
| |
| Witness the magic coffer stocked | |
| With convoluted runes | |
| Wherein thy very voice was locked | 15 |
| And linked to circling tunes. | |
| |
| Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled, | |
| That decked his shelter-place. | |
| Life seemed more present, wrote the child, | |
| Beneath thy well-known face. | 20 |
| |
| And when the grudging days restored | |
| Him for a breath to home, | |
| He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored | |
| Thee making mirth in Rome. | |
| |
| Therefore, I humble, join the hosts, | 25 |
| Loyal and loud, who bow | |
| To thee as Queen of Song—and ghosts, | |
| For I remember how | |
| |
| Never more rampant rose the Hall | |
| At thy audacious line | 30 |
| Than when the news came in from Gaul | |
| Thy son had—followed mine. | |
| |
| But thou didst hide it in thy breast | |
| And, capering, took the brunt | |
| Of blaze and blare, and launched the jest | 35 |
| That swept next week the front. | |
| |
| Singer to children! Ours possessed | |
| Sleep before noon—but thee, | |
| Wakeful each midnight for the rest, | |
| No holocaust shall free! | 40 |
| |
| Yet they who use the Word assigned, | |
| To hearten and make whole, | |
| Not less than Gods have served mankind, | |
| Though vultures rend their soul. | |
| |
