"His music is cold" the people said,
"His cadence is sweet and fine,
Yet never the singing flames of soul
Through its rounded measures shine."

But life reached forth with a potent hand
And caught up his ardent youth,
And plunged it deep in the crucible
Of rigor and rue and ruth.

And high on the upland dim and far
It left him at length alone;
Gone was tho lilting breath of joy
His gay young lips had known.

Deep in his eyes the pity of God
Beheld the valley of dream,
For the real stood forth with a mighty strength
From out of the things that seem.

And the barren heart of the poet welled
With a wealth of love to men;
"His song is divine!" the people cried
When he struck his lute again.