Classic Poem

The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be,
And from his dream forthright a picture grew,
A painting all the people thronged to see,
And joyed therein — till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: " 'Tis bad! Why do ye gape, ye fools!
He painteth not according to the schools. "

The Dreamer probed Life's mystery of woe,
And in a book he sought to give the clue;
The people read, and saw that it was so,
And read again — then came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: " Ye witless ones! this book is vile:
It hath not got the rudiments of style. "

Love smote the Dreamer's lips, and silver clear
He sang a song so sweet, so tender true,
That all the market-place was thrilled to hear,
And listened rapt — till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: " His technique's wrong; he singeth ill.
Waste not your time. " The singer's voice was still.

And then the people roused as if from sleep,
Crying: " What care we if it be not Art!
Hath he not charmed us, made us laugh and weep?
Come, let us crown him where he sits apart. "
Then, with his picture spurned, his book unread,
His song unsung, they found their Dreamer — dead .