And in that song expends its breath;—
What boots it that the Poet flings
His wildest notes on high,
Or strikes with truest hand the strings,
If all his strains must die?
And why should he his notes prolong,
If no one listens to his song?
Yet can the Poet ne'er resign
The lyre he loves, for it alone
Consoles him, when all else is gone;