The Poet

The poet in a golden clime was born,

With golden stars above;

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,

The love of love.

He saw through life and death, through good and ill,

He saw through his own soul.

The marvel of the everlasting will,

An open scroll,

Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded

The secret'st walks of fame.

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed

And winged with flame,

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,

And of so fierce a flight,

From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,

Filling with light

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore

Them earthward till they lit;

Then like the arrowseeds of the fieldflower,

The fruitful wit

Cleaving took root, and springing forth anew

Where'er they fell, behold

Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew

A flower all gold,

And bravely furnished all abroad to fling

The wingéd shafts of truth,

To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring

Of Hope and Youth.

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,

Though one did fling the fire,

Heaven flowed upon the soul in many dreams

Of high desire.

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world

Like a great garden showed,

And through the wreaths of floating dark upcurled,

Rare sunrise flowed.

And Freedom reared in that august sunrise

Her beautiful bold brow,

When rites and forms before his burning eyes

Melted like snow.

There was no blood upon her maiden robes

Sunned by those orient skies,

But round about the circles of the globes

Of her keen eyes

And in the bordure of her robe was writ

Wisdom, a name to shake

Hoar anarchies, as with a thunderfit.

And when she spake,

Her words did gather thunder as they ran,

And as the lightning to the thunder

Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,

Making earth wonder,

So was their meaning to her words. No sword

Of wrath her right arm hurled,

But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word

She shook the world.