He waked and saw this wolf-faced Death
Breaking the dream that filled his breath
With inspiration strong
Of yet unchanted song.
"Take, take my gold and let me live!"
He prayed, as kings do when they give
Their all with royal will,
Holding born kingship still.
To rob the living they refuse,
One death or other he must choose,
Either the watery pall
Or wounds and burial.
"My solemn robe then let me don,
Give me high space to stand upon,
That dying I may pour
A song unsung before."
It pleased them well to grant this prayer,
To hear for naught how it might fare
With men who paid their gold
For what a poet sold.
In flowing stole, his eyes aglow
With inward fire, he neared the prow
And took his god-like stand,
The cithara in hand.
The wolfish men all shrank aloof,
And feared this singer might be proof
Against their murderous power,
After his lyric hour.
