68
The Zankiwank
birds, for they are their best friends you know, and they love all Nature with a vast and all-embracing, all-enduring love.
One singer as he went along chanted half sadly:—
To tell of other’s joys the poet sings;
To tell of Love, its sweets and eke its pain;
The tenderest songs his magic fancy strings,
Of Love, perchance, that he may never gain.
Hearts may not break and passion may be weak,
But O the grief of Love that dare never speak!
To tell of Love, its sweets and eke its pain;
The tenderest songs his magic fancy strings,
Of Love, perchance, that he may never gain.
Hearts may not break and passion may be weak,
But O the grief of Love that dare never speak!
A light-hearted bard then took up the cue and carolled these lines:—
There’s so much prose in life that now and then,
A tender song of pity stirs the heart,
A simple lay of love from fevered pen,
Makes in some soul the unshed tear-drops start.
Sing, poets! sing for aye your sweetest strain,
For life without its poetry were vain!
A tender song of pity stirs the heart,
A simple lay of love from fevered pen,
Makes in some soul the unshed tear-drops start.
Sing, poets! sing for aye your sweetest strain,
For life without its poetry were vain!
