Many's The Year

Upon a harp of silken strings,
I heard a harpist play one night,
Stirring the music into rippling flight,
Making my heart lift melancholy wings,
Bringing mist into the firelight.
And many's the year and many's the year,
And many's the league it is from here,
Since those notes from the string rang,
Since I heard the song he sang.

"All men fade and die and pass.
Their lives are small things to the moon,
Though great things in the harpist's tune.
Still the moonlight shines within the grass,
And still men live beneath the moon.
And many's the year and many's the year,
And many's the league it is from here,
Since one sang a song with meaning
That lasted out his soul's thin keening.

"All women lose their beauty at last.
Still the sun shines, and will shine on,
When the last shred of beauty is gone.
When the shine of their eyes is past,
Still the world will turn to the dawn.
And many's the year and many's the year,
And many's the league it is from here,
Since a woman lived when she had died
In the minds of men at the fireside.

"All children grow up and learn sorrow.
And still the stars send down their beams,
Crystalline in the way of dreams,
Though innocence cannot endure tomorrow.
Still the white fire in the upper air gleams.
And many's the year and many's the year,
And many's the league it is from here,
Since a child laughed when he was old
With as sweet a face, as pure and bold.

"All songs wither like flowers frosted in bud.
But real flowers still in the garden grow,
And the roses return after the snow.
Though the song may live in the blood,
The flowers are the only real things we know.
And many's the year and many's the year,
And many's the league it was from here,
Since a harpist and his harp so rang
That they still remember the song he sang."

So he sang, and I sat and thought,
Of the years and the death that had come,
How beauty's lips had proven dumb,
And the sorrows to children they had brought,
And how my heart had grown so numb.
And many's the year and many's the year,
And many's the league it was from here,
Since I had seen something time could not destroy.
But it was not so long since I had felt joy.

And still he sang, and as he moved on,
I thought of the song that, an unwithered flower,
In my memory still retained its old power,
That song of melancholy he would say was gone.
In my memory it still had its bower.
And many's the year and many's the year,
And many's the league it was from here,
Since those notes from the string rang,
Since I had heard the song he sang.