Sing the song of the singer, merrily ring the rhymes,
Light is the lay they tell us, light as its echoed chimes;
Sing the song of the singer, mocking at doubt and fear,
Catch the joy of its melody, let its daring beauty cheer;
Well that the mellow music may bear no hidden signs
Of the broken heart of the poet, written between the lines.
Watch the part of the player, bravely and deftly done,
See the difficult height attained, the loud applauses won;
Weep with his passionate sorrow, thrill to his passionate bliss,
Blending your joyous laughter with that happy laugh of his;
Well that his marvellous acting dazzles, wins, refines,
Who thinks of the desperate effort, written between the lines?
See the work of the painter, in coloring rare and rich,
Give it its well-won homage, choose it the choicest niche;
Hang it where it may render, as an artist's best can do,
Companionship in its beauty, delicate, pure, and true!
Well that its silent loveliness softness and thought combines;
None read the bitter baffling strife, written between the lines.
Watch the path of the prosperous, sunny, and smooth, and bright,
Health and wealth to give it its full of sweetness and of light;
See how the easy future is planned for the careless feet,
Given each slight desire, flattered each vague conceit.
Well that the outward surface gladness and peace enshrines;
Who knows the tale of the skeleton, written between the lines?
If the singer dies in solitude, his songs sigh on as sweetly;
If the statesman has a hearth disgraced, does he face the world less metely?
So the artist's touch is fine and sure, who heeds the hand that guides it?
Does the player feel a fading life? his miming, masking, hide it.
Cypress, and rose, and laurel, Fate's reckless hand entwines;
Life reads the printed story — Death writes between the lines.
