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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
THE DEAD POET
A. H.
His was the love of art and song,
And well he loved the flowery way;
Yet great his wrath at prospered wrong;
When evil triumphed day by day
Then plunged he in the fray.
And well he loved the flowery way;
Yet great his wrath at prospered wrong;
When evil triumphed day by day
Then plunged he in the fray.
And when brave innocence went down
Then did the vanquished find a friend.
With him went justice through the town;
No foeman ever saw him bend;
He scorn for scorn could send.
Then did the vanquished find a friend.
With him went justice through the town;
No foeman ever saw him bend;
He scorn for scorn could send.
Men said his heritage was lost;
For, born to gentler use, his youth
Was wasted in rude strife; the cost
Too great, they deemed, altho', in sooth,
Through him men learned of Truth.
For, born to gentler use, his youth
Was wasted in rude strife; the cost
Too great, they deemed, altho', in sooth,
Through him men learned of Truth.
301
So were his songs but brief and few;
Yet of some lives they were a part,
And on some souls they fell like dew;
Dead—now men say: he gave to art
The epic of the heart.
Yet of some lives they were a part,
And on some souls they fell like dew;
Dead—now men say: he gave to art
The epic of the heart.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |