THOU singest, thou, me seems, 
Coming from high Parnassus; where thy head 
Beside the silent streams, 
Among fast-fading blooms, hath fashioned 
A pillow of pale dreams; 
While from thee, sleeping, gods, of heart and soul, 
Have taken fullest toll.

Thou knowest at what cost 
Thy sleep was taken on those awful hills-- 
What thou hast gained, and lost; 
Thou knowest, too, if what thou art fulfils 
The pledge of what thou wast; 
And if all compensates the poet's wreath 
That wounds the brow beneath.

Rememberest thou that night 
Incomparable? Thou in dreams wast laid, 
Where petals, rose and white, 
Above thy head a pale pavilion made; 
Where at unscalèd height 
The moon lay anchored in the heaving sky, 
And clouds went surging by.

Then came the gods unknown!-- 
The plundering gods--to take thee unawares, 
While thou wast sleeping, thrown 
Upon the sacred mountain that is theirs. 
In vain sad flowers had blown 
A gale of petals o'er thee, on they came 
In a still sheet of flame!

They knew that those who dare 
To sleep one night beside Parnassus' streams 
The poet's crown must wear-- 
Must lip the chalice of immortal dreams, 
And breathe the eternal air; 
Who, even unto trembling Ossa's hill, 
May walk the mount at will!

They killed thy happiness, 
And strangled all thy youth, with hands profane, 
They brake Love's rosaries, 
Tossing thy ravaged soul amid the slain, 
While thou wast weaponless; 
And left thee gibbeted 'twixt pain and peace, 
Forbidding thy release.

Then they augustly laid 
Their crippled gifts beside thee, and withdrew 
Into high Pelion's shade; 
Their tireless feet made fall no bead of dew, 
Their passing bent no blade, 
Though thunder muttered round each mighty plume, 
And crumbled into gloom.

They laid a fatal spell 
Of beauty on thine eyes, that made most fair 
The rose unpluckable; 
They bade thee thirst, yet find no Cup to bear 
Water from any well; 
They mocked thee with a vision passionate, 
And a soul celibate!

O friend, what thou hast known 
Thou givest me; what thou hast suffered, thou 
Wouldst calmly bear alone; 
Forbidding thorns to gather on my brow,-- 
Accustomed on thine own; 
Thou lingerest at my side, to show and spare 
The pitfall and the snare.

For thou wouldst give to me 
The poet's pillow, who has suffered not 
The poet's penalty; 
A goodly heritage, a happy lot 
Wouldst have my portion be. 
With honey from the rod art fain to feed, 
Not from the galled reed.

Thou hast some rare reward! 
The reed that gods have guided, in thine hand 
Becomes a dreadful sword; 
Their fingers on thy heartstrings still demand 
A loud, triumphant chord: 
They pass the ditch-delivered poets by, 
With wide contemptuous eye.

Poet: I take thy cup: 
But, from my coloured wreath of morning flowers 
Where bees wild honey sup, 
Upon thy sepulchre of buried hours 
Am fain to offer up 
Some bud, that spills upon thy brow anew 
Its fragile shell of dew.

And if at last I choose 
To make my pillow on some slope forlorn, 
And, in that slumber, lose 
My morning wreath, that must be tossed and torn 
To feed the jealous Muse, 
Remember the poor gifts that I resign . . . 
I shall remember thine!