A Minor¹ Poet I am a shell． From me you shall not hear The splendid tramplings of insistent² drums， The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes， Heavy with radiance， languorous³ and clear． Yet， if you hold me close against the ear， A dim， far whisper rises clamorously， The thunderous beat and passion of the sea， The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere⁴． Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings⁵， Making even Love in music audible， And earth one glory． I am but a shell That moves， not of itself， and moving sings； Leaving a fragrance⁶， faint as wine new－shed， A tremulous murmur⁷ from great days long dead．