Immortal Verse! Is mine the strain
To last and live? As ages wane
Will one be found to twine the bays,
And praise me then as now you praise?
Will there be one to praise? Ah, no!
My laurel leaf may never grow;
My bust is in the quarry yet, —
Oblivion weaves my coronet.
Immortal for a month - a week!
The garlands wither as I speak;
The song will die, the harp's unstrung, —
But, singing, have I vainly sung?
You deign'd to lend an ear the while
I trill'd my lay. I won your smile.
Now, let it die, or let it live, —
My verse was all I had to give.
The linnet flies on wistful wings,
And finds a bower, and lights and sings;
Enough if my poor verse endures
To light and live — to die in yours.