In sooth, a lyre! and as the soft air played,
  Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. 
“O emblem meet for me!” the Poet said;
  “Ay, I accept and own thee for my right;
The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid,
  Distinct though frail, and clear with crimson light,
Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain,
And, supple, it will bend and rise again.

“This lyre is cast across the dusty way,
  The common path that common men pursue,
I crave like blessing for my shadowy lay,
  Life’s trodden paths with beauty to renew,
And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. 
  Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew,
That ’neath men’s feet its image still may be
While yet it waves above them, living lyre, like thee!”

But even as the Poet spoke, behold
  He lifted up his face toward the sky;
The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold,
  His shadowy lyre was gone; and, passing by,
The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold
  Their temper on those branches twain to try,
And all their loveliness and leafage sweet
Fell in the pathway, at the Poet’s feet.

“Ah! my fair emblem that I chose,” quoth he,
  “That for myself I coveted but now,
Too soon, methinks, them hast been false to me;
  The lyre from pathway fades, the light from brow.” 
Then straightway turned he from it hastily,
As dream that waking sense will disallow;
And while the highway heavenward paled apace,
He went on westward to his dwelling-place.

He went on steadily, while far and fast
  The summer darkness dropped upon the world,
A gentle air among the cloudlets passed
  And fanned away their crimson; then it curled
The yellow poppies in the field, and cast
  A dimness on the grasses, for it furled
Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain
That eve had left upon the pastoral plain.

He reached his city.  Lo! the darkened street
  Where he abode was full of gazing crowds;
He heard the muffled tread of many feet;
  A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. 
“What mark ye there,” said he, “and wherefore meet? 
  Only a passing mist the heaven o’ershrouds;
It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars—­
What lies behind it but the nightly stars?”

Then did the gazing crowd to him aver
  They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid: 
For that in sooth an old Astronomer
  Down from his roof had rushed into their mid,
Frighted, and fain with others to confer,
  That he had cried, “O sirs!”—­and upward bid
Them gaze—­“O sirs, a light is quenched afar;
Look up, my masters, we have lost a star!”

The people pointed, and the Poet’s eyes
  Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterhood
Swam in the dewy heaven.  The very skies
  Were mutable; for all-amazed he stood
To see that truly not in any wise
  He could behold them as of old, nor could
His eyes receive the whole whereof he wot,
But when he told them over, one WAS NOT.