《At-the-Funeral-of-a-Minor-Poet.docx》由会员分享，可在线阅读，更多相关《At-the-Funeral-of-a-Minor-Poet.docx（4页珍藏版）》请在金锄头文库上搜索。
1、 At the Funeral of a Minor PoetOne of the Bearers soliloquizes： 。 . . Room in your heart for him， O Mother Earth， Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair， And sang your praise in verses manifold And delicate， with here and there a line From end to end in blossom like a bough The May breath
2、es on， so rich it was. Some thought The workmanship more costly than the thing Moulded or carved， as in those ornaments Found at Mycaene. And yet Nature”s self Works in this wise； upon a blade of grass， Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush， Lavishing endless patience. He was born Artist，
3、 not artisan， which some few saw And many dreamed not. As he wrote no odes When Croesus wedded or Maecenas died， And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows， He missed the glare that gilds more facile men A twilight poet， groping quite alone， Belated， in a sphere where every nest Is emptied of its
4、music and its wings. Not great his gift； yet we can poorly spare Even his slight perfection in an age Of limping triolets and tame rondeaux. He had at least ideals， though unreached， And heard， far off， immortal harmonies， Such as fall coldly on our ear to-day. The mighty Zolaistic Movement now Engr
5、osses usa miasmatic breath Blown from the slums. We paint life as it is， The hideous side of it， with careful pains， Making a god of the dull Commonplace. For have we not the old gods overthrown And set up strangest idols？ We could clip Imagination”s wing and kill delight， Our sole art being to leav
6、e nothing out That renders art offensive. Not for us Madonnas leaning from their starry thrones Ineffable， nor any heaven-wrought dream Of sculptor or of poet； we prefer Such nightmare visions as in morbid brains Take shape and substance， thoughts that taint the air And make all life unlovely. Will
7、it last？ Beauty alone endures from age to age， From age to age endures， handmaid of God. Poets who walk with her on earth go hence Bearing a talisman. You bury one， With his hushed music， in some Potter”s Field； The snows and rains blot out his very name， As he from life seems blotted： through Time”
8、s glass Slip the invisible and magic sands That mark the century， then falls a day The world is suddenly conscious of a flower， Imperishable， ever to be prized， Sprung from the mould of a forgotten grave. ”Tis said the seeds wrapt up among the balms And hieroglyphics of Egyptian kings Hold strange v
9、itality， and， planted， grow After the lapse of thrice a thousand years. Some day， perchance， some unregarded note Of our poor friend heresome sweet minor chord That failed to lure our more accustomed ear May witch the fancy of an unborn age. Who knows， since seeds have such tenacity？ Meanwhile he”s dead， with scantiest laurel won And little of our Nineteenth Century gold. So， take him， Earth， and this his mortal part， With that shrewd alchemy thou hast， transmute To flower and leaf in thine unending Springs！
