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 | Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge |  |
159
VIII
THE POET
He comes last of the long processional,Last of the perfect lovers, doomed as they
To live ever more lonely day by day
By all rejected and condemned by all.
Hands stretch to hold him, passionate voices call,
Bright lips beseech him,—yet he cannot stay.
Treading in the large night his outward way
He learns how much the crowns are spiritual.
His heaven is godless since his faith is whole;
No thing but finds in him a perfect love,
No flower, no star but buds within his soul.
Labor and sleep, the warmth of home belong
To all but him,—he feels instead thereof
His heart's blood smelted to the ore of song.
| Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge | |