I am an idle reed;

I rustle in the whispering air;

I bear my stalk and seed

Through spring-time's glow and summer's glare.

And in the fiercer strife

Which winter brings to me amain,

Sapless, I waste my life,

And, murmuring at my fate, complain.

I am a worthless reed;

No golden top have I for crown,

No flower for beauty's meed,

No wreath for poet's high renown.

Hollow and gaunt, my wand

Shrill whistles, bending in the gale;

Leafless and sad I stand,

And, still neglected, still bewail.

O foolish reed! to wail!

A poet came, with downcast eyes,

And, wandering through the dale,

Saw thee and claimed thee for his prize.

He plucked thee from the mire;

He pruned and made of thee a pen,

And wrote in words of fire

His flaming song to listening men;

Till thou, so lowly bred,

Now wedded to a nobler state,

Utt'rest such pæans overhead

That angels listen at their gate.