John Shaw Neilson: Verses about Music

Let your song be delicate.
The skies declare
No war — the eyes of lovers
Wake everywhere.

Let your voice be delicate.
How faint a thing
Is Love, little Love crying
Under the Spring.

Let your song be delicate.
The flowers can hear:
Too well they know the tremble,
Of the hollow year.

Let your voice be delicate.
The bees are home:
All their day's love is sunken
Safe in the comb.

Let your song be delicate.
Sing no loud hymn:
Death is abroad . . . Oh, the black season!
The deep — the dim!

When you go underground with all your airs,
Your kindly lies and your ridiculous prayers,
You shall not ever fear to face again
The strong man's rage, the woman wild with pain
Nor song nor sigh will beat upon your brain.


The world will mourn you neither less nor more
Than all the pawns who played the game before;
The lover-lad will kiss his love anew
The water-birds will have their dance to do,
And the rude Spring will gallop over you.


The men who make will match the men who mar,
The eye unsatisfied will seek a star;
Your visitor the worm will speak you fair,
The bride will tremble and the child will stare,
And the red Summer will ride everywhere.

ALL singers have shadows
That follow like fears,
But I know a singer
Who never saw tears;
A gay love—a green love—
Delightsome—divine:
The Spring is that singer—
An old love of mine!

All players have shadows,
And into the play
Old sorrows will saunter—
Old sorrows will stay.
But here is a player
Whose speech is divine:
The Spring is that player—
An old love of mine!

All singers grow heavy:
Their hours as they run
Bite up all the blossoms,
Suck up all the sun;
But I know a singer
Delightsome—divine:
The gay love—the green love—
An old love of mine!