Paul Hamilton Hayne (Пол Гамильтон Хейн)
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AN idle poet, dreaming in the sun, One given to much unhallowed vagrancy Of thought and step; who, when he comes to die. In the broad world can point to nothing done; No chartered corporations, no streets paved With very princely stone-work, no vast file Of warehouses, no slowly-hoarded pile Of priceless treasure, no proud sceptre waved O'er potent realms of stock, no magic art Lavished on curious gins, or works of steam; Only a few wild songs that melt the heart, Only the glow of some unearthly dream, Embodied and immortal; what are these? Sneers the sage world; chaff, smoke, vain phantasies! Yet stock depreciates, even banks decay, Merchant and architect are lowly laid In purple palls, and the shrewd lords of trade Lament, for they were wiser in their day Than the clear sons of light; but prithee, how Doth stand the matter, when the years have fled; What means yon concourse thronging where the dead Old singer sleeps; say! do they seek him now? Now that his dust is scattered on the breath Of every wind that blows; what meaneth this? It means, thou sapient citizen, that death Heralds the bard's true life, as with a kiss, Wakens two immortalities; then bow To the world's scorn, O poet, with calm brow.
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