Yet do the songsmiths
Quit not their forges;
Still on life's anvil
Forge they the rhyme.
Still the rapt faces
Glow from the furnace:
Breath of the smithy
Scorches their brows.
Yea, and thou hear'st them?
So shall the hammers
Fashion not vainly
Verses of gold.
II
Lo, with the ancient
Roots of man's nature,
Twines the eternal
Passion of song.
Ever Love fans it,
Ever Life feeds it,
Time cannot age it;
Death cannot slay.
Deep in the world-heart
Stand its foundations,
Tangled with all things,
Twin-made with all.
Nay, what is Nature's
Self, but an endless
Strife toward music,
Euphony, rhyme?
Trees in their blooming,
Tides in their flowing,
Stars in their circling,
Tremble with song.
God on His throne is
Eldest of poets:
Unto His measures
Moveth the Whole.