Classic Poem

I saw the Singers, king and sage,
Monk, peasant, villager, and mage,
Round the long hillside winding slow,
With gifts unto their temple go.

All odours of delight they had
To make all manner of men glad,
From mystic nard and pungent myrrh,
To simple leaves of lavender.

Rich fabrics of far looms arrayed
Some of that chanting cavalcade;
And these were they who rode before
And costlier presents with them bore.

Strange, lidded vessels wrought in gold
Their fine aromas might not hold,
But scattered to the morning air
The souls of roses everywhere.

And, after, came the carriers
Of casketfuls of musks and myrrhs;
Plainer, their robes, and some severe,
But sweet their song fell in mine ear.

Full many a pilgrim poorer still
Sought the great Altar on the hill,
With wayside mint for all their dower,
Or the faint-scented linden flower:

On reapers in the fields there fell
Less fair the attar's alien spell—
The women at their weaving-cards
Naught valued of the languid nards—

In the patrician villa these
Were caught by crimson balconies,
While grateful in the toilworn breast
Meek village odours found their rest.

Thus, all who marked the goodly throng
Make onward with the gift of song,
In town or hamlet, field or wood,
Called blessings on the Brotherhood.