The Singer

 

The songs are done, said the singer,

and he broke the strings of the lute.

The host gazed about with anger,

the guests grew mazed and mute.

But the singer stepped from his chains,

and as he passed them by,

a rankness rotted the grains

and the yellow wine grew wry.

The host, he cursed the fates,

and the guests left all too soon,

while the singer stepped through the gates

into the wide, sweet noon.

He sang a song to the hills

without aid of instrument;

he heard their echoed trills,

and then he turned and went.

 

And since the singer left,

we jangle and we start:

all toneless now and reft,

the lutestrings of the heart.