So hath the boon been given, by the poets of old time (Dante to Beatrice,--an I profane not--) Yet with my lesser power shall I not strive To give it thee? All ends of things are with Him From whom are all things in their essence. If my power be lesser Shall my striving be less keen? But rather more! if I would reach the goal, Take then the striving! "And if," for so the Florentine hath writ When having put all his heart Into his "Youth's Dear Book" He yet strove to do more honour To that lady dwelling in his inmost soul He would wax yet greater To make her earthly glory more. Though sight of hell and heaven were price thereof, If so it be His will, with whom Are all things and through whom Are all things good, Will I make for thee and for the beauty of thy music A new thing As hath not heretofore been writ. Take then my promise! Praise of Ysolt In vain have I striven to teach my heart to bow; In vain have I said to him "There be many singers greater than thou." But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany. As a vague crying upon the night That leaveth me no rest, saying ever, "Song, a song." Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight Seeking ever a song. Lo, I am worn with travail And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes As dark red circles filled with dust. Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight, And little red elf words crying "A song," Little grey elf words crying for a song, Little brown leaf words crying "A song," Little green leaf words crying for a song. The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the spring time Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song. White words as snow flakes but they are cold Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams. In vain have I striven to teach my soul to bow, In vain have I pled with him, "There be greater souls than thou." For in the morn of my years there came a woman As moon light calling As the moon calleth the tides, "Song, a song." Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me As the moon doth from the sea, But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words Saying "The soul sendeth us." "A song, a song!" And in vain I cried unto them "I have no song For she I sang of hath gone from me."