Poets

Poets are strange — not always understood

By many is their gift,

Which is for evil or for mighty good —

To lower or to lift.

Upon their spirits there hath come a breath;

Who reads their verse

Will rise to higher life, or taste of death

In blessing or in curse.

The Poet is great Nature's own high priest,

Ordained from very birth

To keep for hearts an everlasting feast —

To bless or curse the earth.

They cannot help but sing; they know not why

Their thoughts rush into song,

And float above the world, beneath the sky,

For right or for the wrong.

They are like angels — but some angels fell,

While some did keep their place;

Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell,

And God's or Satan's face

Looks thro’ their ev'ry word into your face,

In blessing or in blight,

And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace

Of sunlight or of night.

They move along life's uttermost extremes,

Unlike all other men;

And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams,

Like shadows in a glen.

They all are dreamers; in the day and night

Ever across their souls

The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright

In mystic rhythm rolls.

They live within themselves — they may not tell

What lieth deepest there;

Within their breast a heaven or a hell,

Joy or tormenting care.

They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways,

No matter what they seem;

The stars and sunlight of their nights and days

Move over them in dream.

They breathe it forth — their very spirit's breath —

To bless the world or blight;

To bring to men a higher life or death;

To give them light or night.

The words of some command the world's acclaim,

And never pass away,

While others’ words receive no palm from fame,

And live but for a day.

But, live or die, their words leave their impress

Fore'er or for an hour,

And mark men's souls — some more and some the less —

With good's or evil's power.