And when thy soul had made a simple song
And laughed for very glee to sing and sound it,
Outside the walls, the dim mysterious throng
Wrought keen and barbed darts wherewith to wound it:
There was a fault, a fearful deadly fault,
And loud they screamed a very bull's-eye named it;
As one they saw, as one they would assault--
Each kneeling archer drew his dart and aimed it.
And lo! How fared a myriad archetypes!
A myriad fancies, sounds, and colors riddled!
And harps! and horns! and flutes! and lutes! and pipes!
And O! the laugh as each some vict'ry twiddled!
But still the dainty spirit sang its song
And laughed its laugh unconscious of a wrong.