Inspiration

A poet sang of human things, Of gorgeous queens and mighty kings, And gems that glisten; He praised the brassy front of show, The ruby’s fire and diamond’s glow, Yet none would listen.

He wove him many labored rimes Of ended days and coming times, Of deeds that stirred him; He wrote of pomp and circumstance, The flap of flag, the light of lance, But no one heard him.

And thus he learned to know the pain Of him who sings but sings in vain To ears averted, Like one who wakes his sweetest tone To unresponsive walls of stone In halls deserted.

When all the merry melodies He sang his fellow men to please Brought none to hear him, He turned from splendor and from pelf To sing a measure for himself, A song to cheer him.

He wrote a song of long ago-- A vale where yellow lilies grow Beside a river, A path that leads the weary feet Where meadowland and waters meet And rushes quiver.

He wrote a song of childhood days, Of pleasant shade and wooded ways And summer quiet-- A bridge that spanned a gushing rill, A humble cot upon a hill, With roses by it.

’Twas not the creature of his art, This song upwelling from his heart In moments lonely; With memory his eyes grew dim, For then his own soul sang to him, The poet only.

But other mortals heard his tale Of woodland path and verdant vale To heaven winging, And men who scorned his song before Sought out the poet’s open door To hear him singing.

Thus came to him his mistress Fame, Clad in her aureole of flame And smile supernal; No more a fleeting vision now, She placed upon the singer’s brow The kiss eternal.

And then the poet, fool and sage, Turned gently from his written page, While bravos thundered, And, when he saw the listening throng Of those who once had spurned his song, He greatly wondered.