The True Singer
I am aweary of these bards who cry
Their vague and vasty nothings to mine ear,
Rechanting rhytmic wraiths of yesteryear--
Vain echoes of a mighty day gone by.
This age, wherein Man conquers Earth and Sky,
This time of magic sheer,
Beyond all dreams of prophet or of seer
Thrills with a true romance that cannot die.
And yet each singer of that bloodless clan
Amid an age when hugest passions play,
Still pipes his little reed to vanished pan
Or vaunts his loud and hollow sounding lay;
O for a Poet who could be a MAN
Daring to chant the wonder of TODAY!