The Poets Some cry of Sappho's lyre, of Saadi's flute, Comes back across the waste of mortal things: Men strive and die to reach the Dead Sea fruit — Only the poets find immortal springs. Love will outwatch the stars, and light the skies When the last star falls, and the silent dark devours; God's warrior, he will watch the allotted hours, All will be well if he have strength to wait, Love's Vigil Regains her place to make the perfect Seven; Two at a Fireside I built a chimney for a comrade old, I did the service not for hope or hire And then I traveled on in winter's cold, Yet all the day I glowed before the fire. The Butterfly O winged brother on the harebell, stay Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair! Yet thou hast girded up my heart again; man. |