Of strong hands, as at first that hew and build;
Of evil hearts and brave that fight and slay;
Of feast and dance, birthday and marriage day;
Of passion, loss, and joy of love fulfilled
God's singers make sweet verse, and hearts song-thrilled
Are keener set to suffer, strive, and play.
This poet, only, gives no heed alway,
Though earth with life be loud, with death be stilled.
He strays, a shadow, wistful, through the land,
His eyes unseeing and his head uncrowned;
No song he makes of love, nor war, nor wine;
No hymn, no prayer; there comes no mastering sound
From that sweet harp forgotten of his hand,
Left to the vagrant fingering of the vine.