Wander at will, Day after day-- 10 Wander away, Wandering still-- Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber 15 Soul-flight no more. Waft of soul's wing! What lies above? Sunshine and Love, Skyblue and Spring! 20 Body hides--where? Ferns of all feather, Mosses and heather. Yours be the care! "SUCH A STARVED BANK OF MOSS" Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born! Sky--what a scowl of cloud 5 Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star! World--how it walled about Life with disgrace 10 Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face! EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, 5 While your shoulder propped my head. Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, 10 Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly 15 Quite as singing--I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, 20 --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss--such ears Had old judges, it appears! None the less he sang out boldly, 25 Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile, "In vain one tries Picking faults out; take the prize!" 30 When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed 35 One of those same seven strings snapped. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew 40 With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre.