Dante Gabriel Rossetti - The Song-Throe lyrics

By thine own tears thy song must tears beget, O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast none Except thy manifest heart; and save thine own Anguish or ardour, else no amulet. Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery jet Of soulless air-flung fountains; nay, more dry Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst and sigh, That song o'er which no singer's lids grew wet. The Song-god—He the Sun-god—is no slave Of thine: thy Hunter he, who for thy soul Fledges his shaft: to no august control Of thy sk**ed hand his quivered store he gave: But if thy lips' loud cry leap to his smart, The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy brother's heart.