II.

“When the young die,” the Grecian mourner said, “The springtime from the year hath vanished;” The gray-haired poet, in unfailing youth, Sits by the shrine of Truth, Her oracles to spell, And their deep meaning tell; Or else he chants a bird-like note From that thick-bearded throat Which warbled forth the songs of smooth-cheeked May Beside Youth’s sunny fountain all the day; Sweetly the echoes ring As in the flush of spring; At last the poet dies, The sunny fountain dries,— The oracles are dumb, no more the wood-birds sing.