The Poet

Himself is least afraid
   When the singing lips in the dust
With all mute lips are laid.
   For thither all men must.
Nor is the end long stayed.

But he, having cast his song
   Upon the faithful air
And given it speed -- is strong
   That last strange hour to dare,
Nor wills to tarry long.

Adown immortal time
   That greater self shall pass,
And wear its eager prime
   And lend the youth it has
Like one far blowing chime.

He has made sure the quest
   And now -- his word gone forth --
May have his perfect rest
   Low in the tender earth,
The wind across his breast.

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