Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/130

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
Unremembered as old rain, Dries the sheer libation,And the little, petulant hand Is an annotation.
After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished,Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished.
The CenturyEdna St. Vincent Millay


TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG
Minstrel, what have you to doWith this man that after youSharing not your happy fate,Sat at England's Laureate?Vainly in these iron daysStrives the poet in your praise,Minstrel, by whose singing sideBeauty walked, until you died.
Still, though none should hark again,Drones the blue-fly in the pane,Thickly crusts the blackest moss,Blows the rose its musk across,Floats the boat that is forgotNone the less to Camelot.
Many a bard's untimely deathLends unto his verses breath;Here's a song was never sung:Growing old is dying young.Minstrel, what is this to you:That a man you never knew,When your grave was fair and green,Sat and gossiped with a queen?

115

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.