 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
108
THE POET.
The poet wore a wreath of many yearsOf labour and of agony of thought,
And straightway he the fresh green bay leaf brought
That she might crown him whom with outpoured tears
And strong solicitude and anxious fears
His forward footsteps had unceasing sought;
He found her not, and all the fame was nought,
And as the sturdier steed the higher rears,
He bounded, vehement in passion, back
And tore the bay leaves—slowly—one by one—
Dropping the crown his worthiness had won
In crumpled pieces on the dusty track;
What is the world to him who finds it lack
The warmth and radiance of Beauty's Sun?
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