And then I knew that, though I had not heard His voice before, His quiet singing, like some quiet bird At some one's distant door, Had made my own more sweet; had made it more Lovely, in one of God's miraculous ways. I knew then why the days Had seemed to me more perfect when the Spring Came with old bourgeoning; For somewhere in the world his voice was raised, And somewhere in the world his heart was breaking; And never a flower but knew it, sweetly taking Beauty more high and noble for his sake, As a whole wood grows lovelier for the wail Of one sad nightingale. Yet if the Springs long past Seemed wonderful before I heard his voice, I tremble at the beauty I shall see In seasons still to be, Now that his songs are mine while Life shall last. O now for me New floods of vision open suddenly . . . Rejoice, my heart! Rejoice That you have heard the Quiet Singer's voice! After a Dolmetsch Concert. [Arthur Upson] Out of the conquered Past Unravishable Beauty; Hearts that are dew and dust Rebuking the dream of Death; Flower o' the clay downcast Triumphant in Earth's aroma; Strings that were strained in rust A-tremble with Music's breath! Wine that was spilt in haste Arising in fumes more precious; Garlands that fell forgot Rooting to wondrous bloom; Youth that would flow to waste Pausing in pool-green valleys -- And Passion that lasted not Surviving the voiceless Tomb! On a Fly-Leaf of Burns' Songs. [Frederic Lawrence Knowles] These are the best of him, Pathos and jest of him; Earth holds the rest of him. Passions were strong in him, -- Pardon the wrong in him; Hark to the song in him! -- Each little lyrical Grave or satirical Musical miracle! Miniver Cheevy. [Edwin Arlington Robinson] Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons. Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing. Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors. Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant. Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one. Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediaeval grace Of iron clothing. Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it. Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking. At the End of the Day. [Richard Hovey]