O sexton of the alcoved tomb,

Where souls in leathern cerements lie, Tell me each living poet's doom! How long before his book shall die?

It matters little, soon or late,

A day, a month, a year, an age, I read oblivion in its date,

And Finis on its title-page.

Before we sighed, our griefs were told;
Before we smiled, our joys were sung;
And all our passions shaped of old
In accents lost to mortal tongue.

In vain a fresher mould we seek, -
Can all the varied phrases tell
That Babel's wandering children speak
How thrushes sing or lilacs smell?

Caged in the poet's lonely heart,

Love wastes unheard its tenderest tone; The soul that sings must dwell apart,

Its inward melodies unknown.

Deal gently with us, ye who read!
Our largest hope is unfulfilled,
The promise still outruns the deed, -

The tower, but not the spire, we build.