 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
213
MY POET
I
He came; I met him face to face,
And shrank amazed, dismayed; I saw
No patient depth, no tender grace,
No prophet of the eternal law.
And shrank amazed, dismayed; I saw
No patient depth, no tender grace,
No prophet of the eternal law.
But weakness fretting to be great,
Self-consciousness with sidelong eye,
The impotence that dares not wait
For honour, crying “This is I.”
Self-consciousness with sidelong eye,
The impotence that dares not wait
For honour, crying “This is I.”
The tyrant of a sullen hour,
He frowned away our mild content;
And insight only gave him power
To see the slights that were not meant.
He frowned away our mild content;
And insight only gave him power
To see the slights that were not meant.
II
And was it, then, some trick of hand,
Some deft mechanical control,
That bridged the aching gulf, and spanned
The roaring torrent of the soul?
Some deft mechanical control,
That bridged the aching gulf, and spanned
The roaring torrent of the soul?
214
And when convention's trivial bond
Was severed by the trenchant pen,
Was there no single heart beyond?
No hero's pulse? And art thou then
Was severed by the trenchant pen,
Was there no single heart beyond?
No hero's pulse? And art thou then
The vision of that brutish king,
A tortured dream at break of day,
A monstrous misbegotten thing,
With head of gold and heart of clay?
A tortured dream at break of day,
A monstrous misbegotten thing,
With head of gold and heart of clay?
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |