You lords and ladies sitting high in towers,
    Scarcely attending the sweet instrument
  That lulls you ’mid your cruel careless hours,
    Melodious minister of your content;
    Think you this music was from Heaven sent? 
  Nay, Hell hath made it thus so musical. 
    And to its making thorns and nettles went—­
  Poets must make their honey out of gall.

  ENVOI

  Prince of this world, enthroned and insolent,
    Beware, lest with a song your towers fall,
  Your pride sent blazing up the firmament—­
    Poets must make their honey out of gall.

  BALLADE OF RUNNING AWAY WITH LIFE

  O ships upon the sea, O shapes of air,
    O lands whose names are made of spice and tar,
  Old painted empires that are ever fair,
    From Cochin-China down to Zanzibar! 
    O Beauty simple, soul-less, and bizarre! 
  I would take Danger for my bosom-wife,
    And light our bed with some wild tropic star—­
  O how I long to run away with Life!

  To run together, Life and I!  What care
    Ours if from Duty we may run so far
  As to forget the daily mounting stair,
    The roaring subway and the clanging car,
    The stock that ne’er again shall be at par,
  The silly speed, the city’s stink and strife,
    The faces that to look on leaves a scar: 
  O how I long to run away with Life!

  Fling up the sail—­all sail that she can bear,
    And out across the little frightened bar
  Into the fearless seas alone with her,
    The great sail humming to the straining spar,
    Curved as Love’s breast, and white as nenuphar,
  The spring wind singing like a happy fife,
    The keen prow cutting like a scimitar: 
  O how I long to run away with Life!

  ENVOI

  Princess, the gates of Heaven are ajar,
    Cut we our bonds with Freedom’s gleaming knife,—­
  Lo! where Delight and all the Dancers are! 
    O how I long to run away with Life!

  TO A CONTEMNER OF THE PAST

You that would break with the Past, Why with so rude a gesture take your leave?  None hinders, go your way; but wherefore cast Contempt and boorish scorn Upon the womb from which even you were born?  Begone in peace!  Forbear to flout and grieve, Vulgar iconoclast, Those of a faith you cannot comprehend, To whom the Past is as a lovely friend Nobly grown old, yet nobly ever young; The temple and the treasure-house of Time, With gains immortal stored Of dream and deed and song, Since man from chaos first began to climb, His lonely soul for sword.

O base and trivial tongue That dares to mock this solemn heritage, And foul this sacred page!  Sorry the future that hath you for sire!  And happy we who yet Can bear the golden chimes from tower and spire In the old heaven set, And link our hands and hearts with the great dead That