Ah me! how fair they were! how fair and dread In face and form, they showed, when now they came Upon the thymy slope, and the young god Lay with his choir around him, beautiful And bold as Youth and Dawn! There was no cloud Upon the sky, nor any sound at all When I began my strain. No coward fear Of what might come restrained me; but an awe Of those immortal eyes and ears divine Looking and listening. All the earth seemed full Of ears for me alone--the woods, the fields, The hills, the skies were listening. Scarce a sound My flute might make; such subtle harmonies The silence seemed to weave round me and flout The half unuttered thought. Till last I blew, As now, a hesitating note, and lo! The breath divine, lingering on mortal lips, Hurried my soul along to such fair rhymes, Sweeter than wont, that swift I knew my life Rise up within me, and expand, and all The human, which so nearly is divine, Was glorified, and on the Muses' lips, And in their lovely eyes, I saw a fair Approval, and my soul in me was glad.
For all the strains I blew were strains of love-- Love striving, love triumphant, love that lies Within belovèd arms, and wreathes his locks With flowers, and lets the world go by and sings Unheeding; and I saw a kindly gleam Within the Muses' eyes, who were indeed, Women, though god-like. But upon the face Of the young Sun-god only haughty scorn Sate and he swiftly struck his golden lyre, And played the Song of Life; and lo, I knew My strain, how earthy! Oh, to hear the young Apollo playing! and the hidden cells And chambers of the universe displayed Before the charmèd sound! I seemed to float In some enchanted cave, where the wave dips In from the sunlit sea, and floods its depths With reflex hues of heaven. My soul was rapt By that I heard, and dared to wish no more For victory; and yet because the sound Of music that is born of human breath Comes straighter from the soul than any strain The hand alone can make; therefore I knew, With a mixed thrill of pity and delight, The nine immortal Sisters hardly touched By this fine strain of music, as by mine, And when the high lay trembled to its close, Still doubting. Then upon the Sun-god's face There passed a cold proud smile. He swept his lyre Once more, then laid it down, and with clear voice, The voice of godhead, sang. Oh, ecstasy, Oh happiness of him who once has heard Apollo singing! For his ears the sound Of grosser music dies, and all the earth Is full of subtle undertones, which change The listener and transform him. As he sang-- Of what I know not, but the music touched Each chord of being--I felt my secret life Stand open to it, as the parched earth yawns To drink the summer rain; and at the call Of those refreshing waters, all my thought Stir from its dark and secret depths, and burst Into sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wells Deep call to deep, and all the mystery Of all that is, laid open. As he sang, I saw the Nine, with lovely pitying eyes, Sign 'He has conquered.' Yet I felt no pang Of fear, only deep joy that I had heard Such music while I lived, even though it brought Torture and death. For what were it to lie Sleek, crowned with roses, drinking vulgar praise, And surfeited with offerings, the dull gift Of ignorant hands--all which I might have known-- To this diviner failure? Godlike 'tis To climb upon the icy ledge, and fall Where other footsteps dare not. So I knew My fate, and it was near. For to a pine They bound me willing, and with cruel stripes Tore me, and took my life. But from my blood Was born the stream of song, and on its flow My poor flute, to the cool swift river borne, Floated, and thence adown a lordlier tide Into the deep, wide sea. I do not blame Phoebus, or Nature which has set this bar Betwixt success and failure, for I know How far high failure overleaps the bound Of low successes. Only suffering draws The inner heart of song and can elicit The perfumes of the soul. 'Twere not enough To fail, for that were happiness to him Who ever upward looks with reverent eye And seeks but to admire. So, since the race Of bards soars highest; as who seek to show Our lives as in a glass; therefore it comes That suffering weds with song, from him of old, Who solaced his blank darkness with his verse; Through all the story of neglect and scorn, Necessity, sheer hunger, early death, Which smite the singer still. Not only those Who keep clear accents of the voice divine Are honourable--they are happy, indeed, Whate'er the world has held--but those who hear Some fair faint echoes, though the crowd be deaf, And see the white gods' garments on the hills, Which the crowd sees not, though they may not find Fit music for their thought; they too are blest, Not pitiable.