I sing to him that rests below,
⁠And, since the grasses round me wave,
⁠I take the grasses of the grave,
And make them pipes whereon to blow.

The traveller hears me now and then,
⁠And sometimes harshly will he speak:
⁠'This fellow would make weakness weak,
And melt the waxen hearts of men.'

Another answers, 'Let him be,
⁠He loves to make parade of pain,
⁠That with his piping he may gain
The praise that comes to constancy.'

A third is wroth: 'Is this an hour
⁠For private sorrow's barren song,
⁠When more and more the people throng
The chairs and thrones of civil power?