A Legend
Poets are strange — not always understood
By many is their gift,
Which is for evil or for mighty good —
To lower or to lift.
Upon their spirits there hath come a breath;
Who reads their verse
Will rise to higher life, or taste of death
In blessing or in curse.
The Poet is great Nature's own high priest,
Ordained from very birth
To keep for hearts an everlasting feast —
To bless or curse the earth.
They cannot help but sing; they know not why
Their thoughts rush into song,
And float above the world, beneath the sky,
For right or for the wrong.
They are like angels — but some angels fell,
While some did keep their place;
Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell,
And God's or Satan's face
Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face,
In blessing or in blight,
And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace
Of sunlight or of night.
They move along life's uttermost extremes,
Unlike all other men;
And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams,
Like shadows in a glen.
They all are dreamers; in the day and night
Ever across their souls
The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright
In mystic rhythm rolls.
They live within themselves — they may not tell
What lieth deepest there;
Within their breast a heaven or a hell,
Joy or tormenting care.
They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways,
No matter what they seem;
The stars and sunlight of their nights and days
Move over them in dream.
They breathe it forth — their very spirit's breath —
To bless the world or blight;
To bring to men a higher life or death;
To give them light or night.
The words of some command the world's acclaim,
And never pass away,
While others' words receive no palm from fame,
And live but for a day.
But, live or die, their words leave their impress
Fore'er or for an hour,
And mark men's souls — some more and some the less —
With good's or evil's power.
He walked alone beside the lonely sea,
The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face,
His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands
Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer.
And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!
Brown sandals on His feet — His face downcast,
As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns.
His face looked like His Mother's — only hers
Had not those strange serenities and stirs
That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow.
He wore the seamless robe His Mother made —
And as He gathered it about His breast,
The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice
Murmur, " Oh! My Mother " — the white sands felt
The touch of tender tears He wept the while.
He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off
To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave —
For He had walked across the desert sands
All day long — and as He bathed His feet
He murmured to Himself, " Three years! three years!
And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come
And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave
All weary feet on all their thorny ways. "
" Three years! three years! " He murmured still again,
" Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will —
My Father's will — biddeth Me bide that time. "
A little fisher-boy came up the shore
And saw Him — and, nor bold, nor shy,
Approached, but when he saw the weary face,
Said mournfully to Him: " You look a-tired. "
He placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow
Caressingly and blessingly — and said:
" I am so tired to wait. " The boy spake not.
Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm
That had been sweeping on the farther shore,
Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell
At His feet and died; and then the boy said:
" Poor little bird, " in such a piteous tone;
He took the bird and laid it in His hand,
And breathed on it — when to his amaze
The little fisher-boy beheld the bird
Flutter a moment and then fly aloft —
Its little life returned; and then he gazed
With look intensest on the wondrous face
(Ah! it was beautiful and fair) — and said:
" Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God. "
He leaned down towards the boy and softly said:
" I am thy Christ. " The day they followed Him,
With cross upon His shoulders, to His death,
Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock
That little boy knelt down, and there adored,
While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.
By many is their gift,
Which is for evil or for mighty good —
To lower or to lift.
Upon their spirits there hath come a breath;
Who reads their verse
Will rise to higher life, or taste of death
In blessing or in curse.
The Poet is great Nature's own high priest,
Ordained from very birth
To keep for hearts an everlasting feast —
To bless or curse the earth.
They cannot help but sing; they know not why
Their thoughts rush into song,
And float above the world, beneath the sky,
For right or for the wrong.
They are like angels — but some angels fell,
While some did keep their place;
Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell,
And God's or Satan's face
Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face,
In blessing or in blight,
And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace
Of sunlight or of night.
They move along life's uttermost extremes,
Unlike all other men;
And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams,
Like shadows in a glen.
They all are dreamers; in the day and night
Ever across their souls
The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright
In mystic rhythm rolls.
They live within themselves — they may not tell
What lieth deepest there;
Within their breast a heaven or a hell,
Joy or tormenting care.
They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways,
No matter what they seem;
The stars and sunlight of their nights and days
Move over them in dream.
They breathe it forth — their very spirit's breath —
To bless the world or blight;
To bring to men a higher life or death;
To give them light or night.
The words of some command the world's acclaim,
And never pass away,
While others' words receive no palm from fame,
And live but for a day.
But, live or die, their words leave their impress
Fore'er or for an hour,
And mark men's souls — some more and some the less —
With good's or evil's power.
He walked alone beside the lonely sea,
The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face,
His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands
Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer.
And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!
Brown sandals on His feet — His face downcast,
As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns.
His face looked like His Mother's — only hers
Had not those strange serenities and stirs
That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow.
He wore the seamless robe His Mother made —
And as He gathered it about His breast,
The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice
Murmur, " Oh! My Mother " — the white sands felt
The touch of tender tears He wept the while.
He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off
To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave —
For He had walked across the desert sands
All day long — and as He bathed His feet
He murmured to Himself, " Three years! three years!
And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come
And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave
All weary feet on all their thorny ways. "
" Three years! three years! " He murmured still again,
" Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will —
My Father's will — biddeth Me bide that time. "
A little fisher-boy came up the shore
And saw Him — and, nor bold, nor shy,
Approached, but when he saw the weary face,
Said mournfully to Him: " You look a-tired. "
He placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow
Caressingly and blessingly — and said:
" I am so tired to wait. " The boy spake not.
Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm
That had been sweeping on the farther shore,
Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell
At His feet and died; and then the boy said:
" Poor little bird, " in such a piteous tone;
He took the bird and laid it in His hand,
And breathed on it — when to his amaze
The little fisher-boy beheld the bird
Flutter a moment and then fly aloft —
Its little life returned; and then he gazed
With look intensest on the wondrous face
(Ah! it was beautiful and fair) — and said:
" Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God. "
He leaned down towards the boy and softly said:
" I am thy Christ. " The day they followed Him,
With cross upon His shoulders, to His death,
Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock
That little boy knelt down, and there adored,
While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.
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