Along the hoary timeline
Of poet-gods and kings,
Those singers of the song and rhyme,
All ringing, jingling things,
There comes a one (or two)
Of such who use archaic speech
In silly ways, like "pard" or "froo"
Their somber truth to teach.
Immortal souls, in mortal bod's?
It cannot be denied!
These men were more like manly-gods
Who see and sing with pride!
For from their dusty spirit-box,
Behind their earthy-eyes,
The holy hand of Spirit knocks
And shines the heav'nly cries!
But some times, roaring, in a rage
Their words resound and shout! --
And sometimes, silly, in a word,
They merely peepeth out.
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