The Englishman and Other Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
page 43 of 75 (57%)
page 43 of 75 (57%)
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The clean flame for the un-souled dead.' (Oh, strange the words of
Ghosts.) 'If we had owned this little spot In life, we need not lie and rot Here in a pauper's bed.' THE MUSE AND THE POET The Muse said, Let us sing a little song Wherein no hint of wrong, No echo of the great world need, or pain, Shall mar the strain. Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart; Keep sympathy apart. Sing of the sunset, of the dawn, the sea; Of any thing or nothing, so there be No purpose to thy art. Yea, let us make, art for Art's sake. And sing no more unto the hearts of men, But for the critic's pen. With songs that are but words, sweet sounding words, Like joyous jargon of the birds. Tune now thy lyre, O Poet, and sing on. Sing of THE DAWN |
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