At The Hill’s Base Poem by Ina D. Coolbrith

O singers, singing up the laureled height
Whereon song dwells-with thoughts to rhyme that run
As flowers unfold and gladden the sun-
Have ye no room for one
Whose soul uplift with longing infinite,
Findeth in song alone
The perfect meed and measure of delight?

Like to a reed in some still river-bed
That grew, with drowsy lotus-leaves afloat-
A reed some child hath plucked and fashioned
Flute-wise, to take within the young mouth’s red,
And blow one shrill, clear note;

Lo, such am I! Upon the crowned hill,
For one so lacking skill
Have ye no room, O singers, at whose feet
The lowliest place were sweet?
No space where one that can not sing, indeed,
May pipe the slender music of the reed,
O, thou divinest song,
That I have loved so long!