It is a shame that I should lift my voice
In these great days of toil, and thought, and song,
And speak unfitting music, doing wrong
To the pure silence that should be my choice
If song could be so curb'd. But as I stood
By the wild steeps that guard the laurel'd hill
A whisper came, and with a sudden thrill
Shook summer warmth through all my fleeter blood;
Then taking voice, as evening winds will do,
When wander'd in the grass, said, as I bent,
'If thou hast aught of what the gods have lent,
Sing, and in singing keep thy music true.'
So, with this whisper growing up, I flung
An unskilled hand upon the strings and sung.