On Recognition

Ah, but for the chance that eyes strung wide
And far, and minds that climb the highest peaks,
And tongues that sing the sweetest from their cheeks,
Could, in my quiet, simple words reside.
To know that I, with some secluded pride,
Could hear their praise: the girl, the boy who speaks
And tells of those forgotten lines from weeks
Antique; and others with their thanks provide.
Could these be truths where once I'd writ the err?
Nay; for this and other rhymes die slow and
Drown among the unremembered sea of
Rooted depths, discordant songs, distant care.
They join the drowning minstrels' sombre band:
A cacophonous clash to minds above.