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.