A Minor Poet

    The splendid tramplings of insistent¹ drums，

    The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes，

    Heavy with radiance， languorous² and clear.

    Yet， if you hold me close against the ear，

    A dim， far whisper rises clamorously，

    The thunderous beat and passion of the sea，

    The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere³.

    Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings⁴，

    Making even Love in music audible，

    And earth one glory. I am but a shell

    That moves， not of itself， and moving sings；

    Leaving a fragrance⁵， faint as wine new-shed，

    A tremulous murmur⁶ from great days long dead.