The Poet

There was strength in him and the weak won freely from it,
There was an infinite pity, and hard hearts grew soft thereby,
There was truth so unshrinking and starry-shining,
Men read clear by its light and learned to scorn a lie.

His were songs so full of a wholesome laughter
Those whose courage was ashen found it once more aflame,
His was a child-like faith and wandering feet were guided,
His was a hope so joyous despair was put to shame.

His was the delicate insight and his the poignant vision
Whereby the world might learn what wine-lipped roses know,
What a drift of rain might lisp on a gray sea-dawning,
Or a pale spring of the woodland babble low.

He builded a castle of dream and a palace of rainbow fancy,
And the starved souls of his fellows lived in them and grew glad;­
And yet­there were those who mocked the gifts of his generous giving,
And some­but he smiled and forgave them­who deemed him wholly mad.