English poem
The Poet
by Edwin Markham (1852–1940)
His home is in the heights: to him Men wage a battle weird and dim, Life is a mission stern as fate, And Song a dread apostolate. The toils of prophecy are his, To hail the coming centuries— To ease the steps and lift the load Of souls that falter on the road. The perilous music that he hears Falls from the vortice of the spheres.
He presses on before the race, And sings out of a silent place. Like faint notes of a forest bird On heights afar that voice is heard; And the dim path he breaks to-day Will some time be a trodden way. But when the race comes toiling on That voice of wonder will be gone— Be heard on higher peaks afar, Moved upward with the morning star.
O men of earth, that wandering voice Still goes the upward way: rejoice!