A Passing Voice

"Turn me a rhyme," said Fate, "Turn me a rhyme: A swift and deadly hate Blows headlong towards thee in the teeth of Time. Write! or thy words will fall too late." "Write me a fold," said Fate, "Write me a fold, Life to conciliate, Of words red with thine heart's blood, hotly told. Then, kings may envy thine estate!" "Make thee a fame," said Fate, "Make thee a fame To storm the heaven-hung gate, Unbarred alone to the victorious name Which has Art's conquerors to mate." "Die in thy shame," said Fate, "Die in thy shame! Naught here can compensate But the proud radiance of that glorious flame, Genius: fade, thou, unconsecrate!"