Dark Minstrels
We heard the poets singing in the dark,
We saw their lovely lights toss to and fro,
The while they gathered in their golden Ark
All the bright images of after-glow....
They struck us magic chords within the wood,
Showed us fair shapes alive with naked light;
They gave us rivers where the dream trees brood
And lovers wander all the starry night.
We turned and faced each other and we said:
“The poets pour us wine—they do not give us bread.”
For these are singers of dear vanished things,
The things that once have been but may not be;
We sit with close shut lips; un-minstrelled, we;
No heart to chant to these enamored strings,
No song to chant to medieval lyre
That strikes us songs of Ninevah and Tyre.
Our lutes are tuned to dangerous unwalked ways
Where all is dense and beckoning shapes withdraw;
Where the untrodden path winds in a maze,
And lead to things no Seeker ever saw.
We sing the Mind’s high dream, the imperious will,
That makes no music out of greedy strife
But seizes silver pipes, that sharp and shrill,
Call men to leap and seize on Very Life....
While other singers tell the old dreams o’er,
We rise and take us to the outer door;
Here on the wold, where no wise singer sings,
We feel the great Hand brush across our strings!