Thy feeble song is all unsuited
To the full mid-day glare of June.
Cease, for thy rival’s throat is throbbing
With the fierce splendor of the hour:
His is the art that grasps a passion,
To cast it back with tenfold power.
Cease, until yonder feathered poet
Through all his wondrous song has run,
And made the heart of wide creation
Leap in the glory of the sun!