Classic Poem

He who hath not turn'd already
From my rakish, rhymeless poem,
Seeking what the crowd loves better,—
Rhyme and tintinnabulation,

May esteem me a blasphemer,
Just as I, at our first meeting,
To be presently recorded,
Thought my honest friend, the Devil!

He alone blasphemes who smothers
Truth his conscience bids him utter;
Nowadays in Hell and London,
Truth, methinks, is sorely needed!

And (remember) I, Buchanan,
Spite of all my slips, have ever
Loath'd the foul materialistic
Serpent that surrounds the world …

In his autobiographic
Fragment, Stuart Mill assevers
That from infancy to manhood
He was never pious-minded:

Never did his spirit falter
Into Brahmic meditation:
Quite enough for him to brood on
Was the moral side of Man.

Souls like that the Fates may fashion,
But I fail to comprehend them—
From the hour I first remember
I was gazing at the stars;

I was wondering, I was dreaming,
Speculating and aspiring,—
Reaching hands and feeling backward
To the secret founts of Being.

All the gods were welcome to me!
All the heavens were wide and open!
All the dreams of all the Dreamers
In my heart's blood were pulsating!

Beautiful it was to wander
In a glad green world, beholding
Faith's celestial Jacob's Ladder
Rainbow'd out 'tween Earth and Heaven,

And upon it shining Angels,
Some descending, some ascending,
Golden-hair'd, with rosy faces
Smiling on me as I walk'd.

Well, those happy days were over,
With the roses of the Maytime—
One by one my youth's illusions
Had been spirited away.

Ev'n as eyeless Samson labour'd
Wearily 'mong slaves at Gaza,
I had done my daily taskwork,
Blind and sad, yet not despairing;

Spite of all my load of sorrows,
I was hoping, I was dreaming;
Still, tho' all my gods had vanish'd,
Reaching empty arms to heaven!