Trees, and Other Poems

Poets

     Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
      That the wind sways above a ruined shrine.
     Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells
      Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine.

     Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath
      Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod.
     They shall not live who have not tasted death.
      They only sing who are struck dumb by God.