Long Silent

OUR poet had been long silent. He had sung
In his golden youth, of the moon and the stars,
And the whispering winds, and the light that clung
In the heavens after evening put up her bars.

Now, after an aching interval, he came
With a new song from the old heart in his breast;
And over our world there burst a beautiful flame —
His last song his sweetest song, and his best.

But not of Death was his music, nor of tears.
He sang of youth and April and the days of his prime.
For only the old can know the glory of young years,
And only the old can sing of Once-on-a-time.