The Poet Priest

~ Not ~ as of one whom multitudes ~ admire ~, I believe they call him great; They throng to hear him with a strange desire; They, silent, come and wait,

And wonder when he opens wide the gate Of some strange, inner temple, where the fire Is lit on many altars of many dreams — They wait to catch the gleams —

And then they say, In praiseful words: “‘ Tis beautiful and grand.” And so his way Is strewn with many flowers, sweet and fair;

And people say: “How happy he must be to win and wear Praise ev'ry day!” And all the while he stands far out the crowd,

Strangely ~ alone ~. Is it a Stole he wears? — or mayhap a shroud — No matter which, his spirit maketh moan; And all the while a lonely, lonesome sense

Creeps thro’ his days — all fame's incense Hath not the fragrance of his altar; and He seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayer Than lift his head aloft amid the Grand:

If all the world would kneel down at his feet And give acclaim — He fain would say: “Oh! No! No! No! The breath of fame is sweet — but far more sweet

Is the breath of Him who lives within my heart; God's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creep Along the words of merely human art; It cometh from some far-off hidden Deep,

Far-off and from so far away — It filleth night and day.” ~ Not ~ as of one who ever, ever cares For earthly praises, not as of such think thou of me,

And in the nights and days — I'll meet with thee In Prayers — and thou shalt meet with me.