The Poet

By Mildred McNeal Sweeney

Born 1871


Himself is least afraid
         When the singing lips in the dust
With all mute lips are laid.
         For thither all men must.
Nor is the end long stayed.

But he, having cast his song
         Upon the faithful air
And given it speed -- is strong
         That last strange hour to dare,
Nor wills to tarry long.

Adown immortal time
         That greater self shall pass,
And wear its eager prime
         And lend the youth it has
Like one far blowing chime.

He has made sure the quest
         And now -- his word gone forth --
May have his perfect rest
         Low in the tender earth,
The wind across his breast.

DayPoems Poem No. 1237
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/1237.html">The Poet by Mildred McNeal Sweeney</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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