William Morris(1834–1896)
From The Earthly Paradise
Of h e a v e n or h e l l I h a v e no p o w e r to sing,
I c a n n o t e a s e t h e b u r d e n of y o u r fears,
Or m a k e q u i c k - c o m i n g d e a t h a little thing,
Or b r i n g again t h e p l e a s u r e of past years,
N o r for my w o r d s shall ye forget y o u r tears,
Or h o p e again for a u g h t that I c a n say,
T h e idle s i n g e r of an e m p t y day.
B u t rather, w h e n , a w e a r y o f y o u r mirth,
F r o m full hearts still u n s a t i s f i e d ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
G r u d g e every m i n u t e as it p a s s e s by,
M a d e t h e m o r e m i n d f u l t h a t t h e s w e e t days d i e —
R e m e m b e r me a little t h e n I pray,
T h e idle s i n g e r of an e m p t y day.
T h e h e a v y trouble, t h e b e w i l d e r i n g care
T h a t w e i g h s u s d o w n w h o live a n d earn o u r bread,
T h e s e idle verses h a v e n o p o w e r t o bear;
S o let m e s i n g o f n a m e s r e m e m b e r e d ,
B e c a u s e they, living n o t , c a n ne'er b e dead,
Or l o n g t i m e take their m e m o r y q u i t e a w a y
F r o m us p o o r singers of an e m p t y day.
Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight
Let i t s u f f i c e m e that m y m u r m u r i n g r h y m e
B e a t s w i t h light w i n g a g a i n s t t h e ivory gate,7
T e l l i n g a tale n o t too i m p o r t u n a t e
T o t h o s e w h o i n t h e s l e e p y r e g i o n stay,
L u l l e d by t h e singer of an e m p t y day.
F o l k say, a wizard to a n o r t h e r n king
At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show,
That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard, but in its wonted 0 way,usual
Piped the drear wind of that December day.
So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea,
Where tossed about all hearts of men must be;
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.