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Hail, Poet—and farewell! Our day is past,
Yet may we hear new songs before we die,
The chanteys of the mightiest and the last,—
The squadrons of the sky.
We knew the rhythm of myriad marching feet,
Gray tossing seas that rocked the wind-whipped sail,
The drumming hoofs of horses, and the beat
Of stern hearts clad in mail.
But you—earth-fettered we shall watch your wings
Topping the mountains, battling winds,—to dare
Challenge the lammergeyer where she swings
Down the long lanes of air.
And when you take the skylark for your guide,
And soar straight up to sun-drenched shores of Time,
Immortal singers there shall, eager-eyed,
Await your new-born rhyme.
Their songs are charm-songs, a divine caress,
Or torrents that no power of man could tame,
Or time-hushed gardens of grave loveliness,
But yours,—a leaping flame!
Hail, Poet! Yours the Dream Interpreted,
Earth's haunting fairy-tale since life began,—
The Dragon of Unfaith, his magic dead,
Slain by the Flying Man!
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