We are the shaken slaves of Breath:For logic leaves the race unstirred;But cadence, and the vibrant word,Are lords of life, are lords of death.
Not facts nor reasons absoluteMay touch the crowd's composite soul,But rhythm, and the drum's long roll,The orator, the arrowy flute.
The gods mixed music with our clay .ÀæRune-giving Odin, Krishna, Pan,Move in the running blood of man,His tidal moods they mete and sway.
Song more endures than steel or stone .Àæ.Sandalled with magic syllablesWe glide like shades through shadowy hells,Or soar to heaven on a tone.
