Two Poets.
There lived a poet once, a famous bard,
Whose muse, arrayed in robes of misty light,
Soared high above the common herd of men.
So high she soared, she almost passed from sight,
Even as the cold and brilliant stars of Heaven
That shine in chilly splendour from the skies
Withhold the radiance of their fairest beams
Beyond the naked sight of human eyes.
Still there are some pretentious ones who read
The mystic dreams and fancies of his brain,
Pedantic minds, who, understanding naught,
Would still have others think they grasp the strain,
Till, at some passage with strange meaning fraught,
Too subtle far for them to understand,
They pause perplexed, then as with one accord
Cry out in chorus: “How sublime and grand!”
O gifted bard! I would not try to pluck
One leaf from out thy laurel wreath of fame
Because I fail to grasp thy subtle thought;
’Tis not in thee, but me, where lies the blame.
Around his tomb the world has bowed in grief,
And strewed his grave with bay and laurel leaf.
There lived and died a poet, years ago—
A hardy, humble ploughman of the soil
Who sang his heartfelt songs in simplest words
And earned his daily bread by humble toil.
