THE PROEM
A MINSTREL, through a forest wayfaring,
Feeling his heart stirred in him, seized his lyre,
And tuned his strings, and so began to sing :
Oh! Woe to me who have to sing this thing!
The sun uprose, and his song mounting higher,
Reached to the summit of the Olympian hill,
Filling the gods with new and strange desire
To stain earth’s mire with their immortal fire :
Oh! Woe to me who have to sing this thing!
He sang of blood, and how men mar and spill;
He sang of love, and how men love and kill;
He sang the world as never yet twas sung;
He sang the will to fashion joy from ill:
Oh! Woe to me who have to sing this thing!
And even as he sang with easy tongue,
With lips that quivered as his spirit stung,
Crying aloud unto the Muse who sings,
New glory flung unto him to him clung:
Oh! Woe to me who have to sing this thing|
Oh! Woe to me who have to sing these things ;
I was the Minstrel whom Enchantment brings :
She led her Poet captive through the world;
Alas! his wings were tangled in life’s strings :
Oh! Woe to me who have to sing this thing!
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