|| Play On ||
He was standing there, forlorn!
Singing like a new day of spring
The Eyes can't see
But the hand can
With the lyre gold.
Like a lark sonorous
He too, soaring upwards
His voice, the wings,
Calliope there rest at peace,
Of love, of rhythm, melodious.
I, in rapt, felt pain at my breast
Not with envy, no, with empathy!
Melody the food, I hunger.
The hands drop coin in his hat
The busy ears towards pandemonium
Behind them Time's winged chariot
But I still, like the star
Zephyr carries him, O, soothing him!
His rags muddy
To him Beauty withholds!
O cruel Beauty, material angel!
But where the mind is pure
The soul purer!
Thou, in thine own world, the king
And I, my loves at thy shrine!