The Troubadour
So many poets die ere they are known,
I pray you, hear me kindly for their sake.
Not of the harp, but of the soul alone,
Is the deep music all true minstrels make:
Hear my soul’s music, and I will beguile,
With string and song, your festival awhile.
The stranger, looking on a merry scene
Where unknown faces shine with love and joy,
Feels that he is a stranger: on this green
That fronts the castle, seeing your employ,
My heart sank desolate; yet came I near,
For welcome should be found at all good cheer.
Provence my home, and fancy not, I pray,
That in Provence no lords save Love abide;
For there Neglect, that, coming down the way,
Or priest, or Levite takes the other side,
Neglect, false neighbor, flung at me the scoff:
‘Honor is cold, but loves true worth-far off!’
Love is the key—note of the universe—
The theme, the melody; though poorly decked,
Masters, I ask but little of your purse,
For love, not gold, is best to heal neglect.
Love yields true fame when love is widely sown;
Bloom, flower of love!-lest I, too, die unknown.
