Poems (Millay)/To a Poet that Died Young
To a Poet that Died Young
Minstrel, what have you to doWith this man that, after you,Sharing not your happy fate,Sat as England's Laureate?Vainly, in these iron days,Strives the poet in your praise,Minstrel, by whose singing sideBeauty walked, until you died.
Still, though none should hark again,Drones the blue-fly in the pane,Thickly crusts the blackest moss,Blows the rose its musk across,Floats the boat that is forgotNone the less to Camelot.
Many a bard's untimely deathLends unto his verses breath;Here's a song was never sung:Growing old is dying young.Minstrel, what is this to you:That a man you never knew,When your grave was far and green,Sat and gossipped with a queen?
Thalia knows how rare a thingIs it, to grow old and sing;When the brown and tepid tideCloses in on every side.Who shall say if Shelley's goldHad withstood it to grow old?