Even in anger, like the strings of harps;
And how could they be born to majesty
If I had never made the golden cradle?
youngest pupil [throwing himself at seanchan's feet]. Why did you take me from my father’s fields?
If you would leave me now, what shall I love?
Where shall I go? What shall I set my hand to?
And why have you put music in my ears,
If you would send me to the clattering houses?
I will throw down the trumpet and the harp,
For how could I sing verses or make music
With none to praise me, and a broken heart?
seanchan. What was it that the poets promised you,
If it was not their sorrow? Do not speak.
Have I not opened school on these bare steps,
And are not you the youngest of my scholars?
And I would have all know that when all falls
In ruin, poetry calls out in joy,
Being the scattering hand, the bursting pod,
The victim’s joy among the holy flame,
God’s laughter at the shattering of the world.
And now that joy laughs out, and weeps and burns
On these bare steps.
youngest pupil. O master, do not die!
oldest pupil. Trouble him with no useless argument.
Be silent! There is nothing we can do
