Dialogue

Soul: There is no stronger thing than song; In sun and rain and leafy trees It wafts the timid soul along On crested waves of melodies.

Body: But leaves the body bare to feed Its hunger with its very need.

Soul: Although the frenzied belly writhes, Yet render up in song your tithes; Song is the weakling’s oaken rod, His Jacob’s ladder dropped from God.

Body: Song is not drink; song is not meat, Nor strong, thick shoes for naked feet.

Soul: Who sings by unseen hands is fed With honeyed milk and warm, white bread; His ways in pastures green are led, And perfumed oil illumes his head; His cup with wine is surfeited, And when the last low note is read, He sings among the lipless dead With singing stars to crown his head.

Body: But will song buy a wooden box The length of me from toe to crown, To keep me safe from carrion flocks When singing’s done and lyre laid down?