Poems (Robert Underwood Johnson)/After the Song
AFTER THE SONG(To E. J. W.)
If to your wondrous voice and art
I give not plaudits with the throng,
'T is lest I spill my brimming heart
And in the singer lose the song.
I give not plaudits with the throng,
'T is lest I spill my brimming heart
And in the singer lose the song.
Too soon the sweetest cadence dies;
The vanished vision leaves but this:
The burden of the things we prize,
The pathos of the things we miss.
The vanished vision leaves but this:
The burden of the things we prize,
The pathos of the things we miss.
Oh, for a silence that should hold
These echoes of delicious sound
As depths of a still lake enfold
Brooks that fall fainter bound by bound.
These echoes of delicious sound
As depths of a still lake enfold
Brooks that fall fainter bound by bound.
Yours is the art of Orphic power
To charm the soul from out its hell—
Deserts of absence to reflower
With rose instead of asphodel.
To charm the soul from out its hell—
Deserts of absence to reflower
With rose instead of asphodel.
Like dew on gossamer, a tear
Lies on the fabric of our dream:
Despairing hope! that we who hear
Might be as noble as you seem.
Lies on the fabric of our dream:
Despairing hope! that we who hear
Might be as noble as you seem.