The Work, It Is Not done Yet

For singing seasons over,
For songs cast far away,
There are no words to hover
O’er loves of yesterday.

Their tunes are with the wind now,
A-whirling far to sea,
And none can bring them back now,
Who had not strength to be.

They fly off scared and wild
That harnessed were not well,
Like babblings of a child
Which fall where can none tell.

The spirit of the singer,
It needs with logic bide;
Each line must be a bringer
Of its own perfect pride.

And when a verse is measured,
And words swing out with grace,
Then, ‘though the stanza’s treasured,
Re-writing may find place.

Then, Courage needs a hearing,
Severe,  severer still,
That Love may stride the clearing
Led by a light-heart will.

For singing seasons young yet,
For men with dreams to say,
The work, it is not done yet,
While one word skips astray.

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