A poet took in hand his mighty pen
To move the hearts of lyric-loving men.
He wrote of prayer, not knowing how to pray;
He wrote of Heaven, not having found the way;
He wrote of fame, not having reached the goal
Where fame’s great treasure thrills the seeking soul;
He wrote of Art, and then of Nature sweet,
While Nature’s flowers were crushed beneath his feet;
He wrote of life, and human love below,
The power of which he did not, could not know.
At last, grown weary of his every theme,
A thought aroused him from his restless dream;
He seized his pen,—the inspiration grew
To tell of things he really felt and knew:
He wrote of “mother” and his “childhood days;”
Then high and low began to sing his praise.