Robert Louis Stevenson

Bright Is the Ring...

Bright is the ring of words
 When the right man rings them,
Fair the fall of songs
 When the singer sings them.
Still they are carolled and said —
 On wings they are carried —
After the singer is dead
 And the maker buried.
 
Low as the singer lies
 In the field of heather,
Songs of his fashion bring
 The swains together.
And when the west is red
 With the sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings
 And the maid remembers.
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