Classic Poem

Those flowers of flame that blossom at night
From the dust of the city, along the street,
And wreathe rich rooms with their leaves of light,
Were dropping their tremulous bloom at my feet.

And the men whose names by the crowd are known,
And the women uplifted to share their place —
Some of them bright with their jewels alone,
Some of them brighter with beauty and grace —

Were around me under the flashing rays,
All seeming, I thought as I saw them there,
To ask the throng, in their pleased, mute ways,
For its bow, or its smile, or at least its stare.

But, faint with the odors that floated about,
And tired of the glory the few can win,
I turned to the window; the darkness without
Struck heavily on the glitter within,

Still the glare behind me haunted my brain,
And I thought: " They are blest who are shining so; "
But a voice replied: " You are blinded and vain —
Such triumph when highest is often low.

" For some, " it said, with a slow, sad laugh,
" Who wear so proudly their little names,
Have leant on the People, as on a staff
To help them up to their selfish fames.

" And others yet — it is hard to know —
Have crawl'd through the dust to their sunny hour,
To crawl the same in its warmth and glow
And hiss the snake in the colors of Power.

" Yet it is comfort to feel, through the whole,
They only look great, in God's calm eyes,
Who lean on the still, grand strength of the soul
And climb toward the pure, high light of the skies. "