Did those sweet singing prophet bards of yore
Stretch thee a greeting hand?
And did they gather round about thee there,
With faces gray against the coming day;
And, with wan fingers on thy trembling lips,
Teach thee their mighty lay?—
Till thy enraptured soul, by thine own lips,
Was filled with such great harmony of song
As gave thee place among their matchless selves,
A brother of the throng.