Classic Poem

My life's on the wane and I'm spent with work,
A wretched and ignorant renegade clerk,
A runaway fled from his Order afar, a
Brother condemned by the chapter of Skara.

I'm now but an old and broken man,
To Satan consigned by the Church's ban
For murder and obstinate heresy,
And doomed by the King to outlawry.
When Lars the Canon I smote in wrath,
The brethren hastened to dog my path.
They hunted me like a wolf in the wood;
But all that they found was my monkish hood.

A surly and obstinate monk was I,
And many a tankard on the sly
I drew from the abbot's well-filled tun,
And sinned most vilely with a nun.
My muscles were iron; I'd frequent
The village inn where the wastrels went,
I joined with a harlot and fiddler crew,
And Lars Canonicus I slew.
But misery came of those evil days,
In a foreign land I berued my ways,
Eating husks whence the swine had turned,
Like the man in a tale I learned.

I was not quite in the devil's clutch,—
Of good in man's nature there's always much,—
But I had a stormy road to go,
As when the blasts of the tempest blow
A fisherman's boat on a rugged shore
And leave it there broken and battered sore,
Although for rift and wound
Some help may yet be found.

They shut me up in a dismal cell,
Then drove me forth in the waste to dwell,
Like beasts they hunted me here and there—
Like beasts that fain would catch and tear.
They taught me hatred, sin, and deceit,
While bitterness was my drink and meat.
I felt myself doomed to death and damnation,
In Satan's power beyond salvation;
Condemned to hell forever and aye,
I lusted now to burn and slay.
But the sigh of the woods, the voice of the stream,
The beauty of morn's awakening gleam,
And the weeping autumn rain,—
These taught me love again.

And dew, the brooks, and the bird's fresh song,
The flowers, the elk as he bounded-along,
And the squirrel's joy in the top of the fir
Set life and hope in my veins astir,
Gave self-respect once more
And taught a rich new lore.

It is not true, the once-learned story
That some are shut out from heaven's glory,
For every soul may enter free;
Not as sheep and goats, but alike are we.
There is no good man who is quite as good
As he thinks himself in presumptuous mood,
Nor is there a sinner so foul within
As he feels when racked by the pangs of sin.
Then do not boast, my brother,
Nor chide and judge another.

And he who sits so mighty at Rome,
For all of me, must abide his doom,
With doctor, monk, and pastor
And titled priest and master.
The noble who sits so proud in his tower,
He too must submit to sorrow's power;
On dukes and kings dread sorrow falls,
Yea, emperors its might appalls;
We all may go astray,
So wherefore chide for aye?

Thus o'er the earth the people roam,
And not a man knows whence we come,
And none knows whither the way will lead,
And none knows what is life, indeed.
And yet beyond clouds of strife
There dawns a far better life;
Where no one is evil, no one good,
But as brothers all we breast the flood,
Each lending each a hand
While struggling to the strand.

Though the world has robbed me of honor here,
Though I sit alone in the forest drear,
And better days may never be mine,
Yet I'll not grieve, I'll not repine:
The birds mount gaily toward the skies,
With every morn the sun doth rise,
The birch-tree buds anew,—
Why should not I hope, too?

Perhaps, when a thousand years have flown
Like clouds over cottage and castle blown,
A rider may wend through the forest here,
May tether his horse to a birch-tree near,
May open the door, peep in and see
The outlaw's den and its misery,
And read this wretched scrawl if he will,
On parchment writ with a wild bird's quill.

Then will he say: “So long ago
Did this man learn what we all now know,
Foreseeing the age that upon this earth
After long, long strife has been brought to birth?—
And yet was he of yore a
Poor banished Monk of Skara!”