The Poet

The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower’d with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro’ life and death, thro’ good and ill, He saw thro’ his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll, Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing’d 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 arrow-seeds of the field flower, 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 furnish’d all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho’ one did fling the fire. Heaven flow’d upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show’d, And thro’ the wreaths of floating dark upcurl’d, Rare sunrise flow’d. And Freedom rear’d 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 Sunn’d by those orient skies; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment’s hem was traced in flame WISDOM, a name to shake All evil dreams of power—a sacred name. 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 whirl’d, But one poor poet’s scroll, and with his word She shook the world.