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THE POET.
The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above;
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
With golden stars above;
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
He saw through life and death, through good and ill,
He saw through his own soul.
The marvel of the everlasting will,
An open scroll,
He saw through his own soul.
The marvel of the everlasting will,
An open scroll,
Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded
The secret'st walks of fame.
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And winged with flame,
The secret'st walks of fame.
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And winged with flame,
