My Masterpiece

I wrote the truest, tend'rest song          The world had ever heard;      And clear, melodious, and strong,          And sweet was every word.      The flowing numbers came to me          Unbidden from the heart;      So pure the strain, that poesy          Seemed something more than art.      No doubtful cadence marred a line,          So tunefully it flowed,      And through the measure, all divine          The fire of genius glowed.      So deftly were the verses wrought,          So fair the legend told,      That every word revealed a thought,          And every thought was gold.      Mine was the charm, the power, the skill,          The wisdom of the years;      'Twas mine to move the world at will          To laughter or to tears.      For subtile pleasantry was there,          And brilliant flash of wit;      Now, pleading eyes were raised in prayer,          And now with smiles were lit.      I sang of hours when youth was king,          And of one happy spot      Where life and love were everything,          And time was half forgot.      Of gracious days in woodland ways,          When every flower and tree      Seemed echoing the sweetest phrase          From lips in Arcadie.      Of sagas old and Norseman bands          That sailed o'er northern seas;      Enchanting tales of fairy lands          And strange philosophies.      I sang of Egypt's fairest queen,          With passion's fatal curse;      Of that pale, sad-faced Florentine,          As deathless as his verse.      Of time of the Arcadian Pan,          When dryads thronged the trees -      When Atalanta swiftly ran          With fleet Hippomenes.      Brave stories, too, did I relate          Of battle-flags unfurled;      Of glorious days when Greece was great -          When Rome was all the world!      Of noble deeds for noble creeds,          Of woman's sacrifice -      The mother's stricken heart that bleeds          For souls in Paradise.      Anon I told a tale of shame,          And while in tears I slept,      Behold! a white-robed angel came          And read the words and wept!      And so I wrote my perfect song,          In such a wondrous key,      I heard the plaudits of the throng,          And fame awaited me.      Alas! the sullen morning broke,          And came the tempest's roar:      'Mid discord trembling I awoke,          And lo! my dream was o'er!      Yet often in the quiet night          My song returns to me;      I seize the pen, and fain would write          My long lost melody.      But dreaming o'er the words, ere long          Comes vague remembering,      And fades away the sweetest song          That man can ever sing!