Two Poets
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THE love-mad lark you sing of swooned," they said,"And speared his bosom on a thorn of lastYear's rose; cease playing Orpheus; no blastYou blow can raise Eurydice once dead.Our ears are cloyed with songs our fathers heardOf how your lady's face and form were fair;Put by your fluting; swell a martial air,And spur us on with some prophetic word."
So, wearying, he changed his tune, and wonThe praise of little men (who needed none) . . .But oh to see him smile as when dawn blewA trumpet only he could hear, and dewHe could not brush away besieged his eyesAt sight of gulls departing from his skies.
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