Yea, more beyond the count of suns.
I will not desert you.
Though I could weigh the soul and balance it
And know the very beginning of Life and ending of Death,
I would not desert you.
My little helpless children,
It is not right that you be born to die
Before you have lived.
I will not make a song of balmy Spring,
Which lifts so shyly her veil,
Jeweled and odorous ;
Nor will I sing of voluptuous Summer,
Charming with her vague discourse when the birds have
sunk into silence, Nor celebrate the beauty of bough-bending Autumn, Rich caparisoned, whirling the painted leaves about, Like a strong youth at play ; nor honest Winter, The mimicry to man of immaculate Death. I will not tell of the great playground. While you, my little children, know it not But look continually downward into a grave.
I will sing a psalm of affliction and of tears.
I will sing a dirge of darkest night
When the stars hide their faces before the thunder.
I will chant a paean of vengeance and of deluge.
Against the sky, I see Justice
On a skyey crag, holding his sword, motionless, point
down ; Not yet uplifted. Here in the wilderness, in the lonely abode of meditation
and unannoyed of men. Let me speak so men must listen ; Those who buzz this little hour, and those to come.
TRUTH: Speak, Poet. They will listen.
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