 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
I
YOU wish to be a poet, Little Man?
More verses limping 'neath their big intent?
Well—one must be a poet if one can!
But do you know the way the others went?
More verses limping 'neath their big intent?
Well—one must be a poet if one can!
But do you know the way the others went?
Who buys of gods must pay a heavy fee.
The World loves not its dreamers overmuch.
And he who longs to drink at Castaly,
Must hobble there upon a broken crutch.
The World loves not its dreamers overmuch.
And he who longs to drink at Castaly,
Must hobble there upon a broken crutch.
One sins by being different, it seems;
At least so in our human commonweal.
Who goes to market with his minted dreams,
Must buy and bear the Cross of the Ideal.
At least so in our human commonweal.
Who goes to market with his minted dreams,
Must buy and bear the Cross of the Ideal.
Lo, tall amid the forest, blackened, grim,
The lightning-riven pine!—God-kissed was he.
How all the little beeches jeer at him,
Safe in their snug arrays of greenery!
The lightning-riven pine!—God-kissed was he.
How all the little beeches jeer at him,
Safe in their snug arrays of greenery!
And who shall call the little beeches mad?
Not I, who know how big are little acts.
Want what you have, and cherish, O my Lad,
The downright, foursquare, geometric facts!
Not I, who know how big are little acts.
53
The downright, foursquare, geometric facts!
| The Stranger at the Gate | |