A Poet’s Fancies
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If I should quit thee, sacrifice, forswear,
To what, my art, shall I give thee in keeping?
To the long winds of heaven? Shall these come sweeping
My songs forgone against my face and hair?
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Or shall the mountain streams my lost joys bear,
My past poetic pain in rain be weeping?
No, I shall live a poet waking, sleeping,
And I shall die a poet unaware.
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From me, my art, thou canst not pass away;
And I, a singer though I cease to sing,
Shall own thee without joy in thee or woe.
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Through my indifferent words of every day,
Scattered and all unlinked the rhymes shall ring,
And make my poem; and I shall not know.
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