Child of a line accurst 
And old as Troy, 
Bringer of best and worst 
In wild alloy? 
Light, like a linnet first,
He sang for joy. 

Thrall to the gilded ease 
Of every day, 
Mocker of all degrees 
And always gay,
Child of the Cyclades 
And of Broadway? 

Laughing and half divine 
The boy began, 
Drunk with a woodland wine
Thessalian: 
But there was rue to twine 
The pipes of Pan. 

Therefore he skipped and flew 
The more along,
Vivid and always new 
And always wrong, 
Knowing his only clew 
A siren song. 

Careless of each and all
He gave and spent: 
Feast or a funeral 
He laughed and went, 
Laughing to be so small 
In the event.

Told of his own deceit 
By many a tongue, 
Flayed for his long defeat 
By being young, 
Lured by the fateful sweet
Of songs unsung? 

Knowing it in his heart, 
But knowing not 
The secret of an art 
That few forgot,
He played the twinkling part 
That was his lot. 

And when the twinkle died, 
As twinkles do, 
He pushed himself aside
And out of view: 
Out with the wind and tide, 
Before we knew.