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| Weird Tales ~ The Poets|
written by Robert Ervin Howard
|First published in Weird Tales, March 1938.||Link to further information|
Out of the somber night the poets come,
A moment brief to fan their lambent flame;
Then, like the dimming whisper of a drum,
Fades back into the night from whence it came.
The gray fog, swirling cloak of cynic Time,
Meshes achievement in the ages' gloom,
A moment's mirth, a breath of lilting rime,
And then―the gray of old oblivions' womb.
Weaver of melodies all golden-spun
The singer sings his song―and passes on.
The poets strum his lyre―then is one
With gray-hued dusk and rose of fading dawn.
A moment's laughter on the winds of Time,
A moment's ripple on Time's silent sea,
A golden riffle in the river's slime,
And then―the silence of Eternity.
Gray dust and ash where leaped the mystic fire,
Mingled with air and wind the once-red flame;
Breeze-born the tune, but now forgot the lyre―
Remains?―the musty thing that men call Fame.
Half-curious eyes that scan the yellowed page,
All heedless of the makers of the feast―
Why, Pierrot might have been a musty sage,
Francois Villon a stoled and sour priest.
Who penned this lyric? Who this sonnet? Whence
The soul of fire that snared these stars in song?
Who knows? Who cares? A vast indifference
Is all the answer of the marching throng.
|File:SemiPD-icon.svg||Works by this author are in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author's life plus 78 years or less.|