The poet looks on human things,
And, as his mood is, so he sings,
And lets his fingers touch the strings.
And as they stray the chords along,
He gives the passionate lover song,
And greater strength to help the strong.
He lifts the weak; with flashing eye,
He launches bolts at tyranny
That slowly withers ere it die.
When war looms like a red eclipse,
He grasps with whitening finger tips
The sword—the bugle at his lips.
And when 'mid wheeling drifts of smoke,
The charging front ranks interlock,
His is the spirit in each stroke.
He sees beneath the veil of things,
The undercurrent as it swings;
The touch that heals, the prick that stings.
The inward wound that inward bleeds,
The doubts that undermine our creeds,
Our holiest faiths, our highest needs.
The madness and the dull despair,
The bitter canker everywhere,
He sees and builds a beacon there.
He sees through life, he sees afar,
And at the end death as a bar,
And stopping there he lights a star.
For unto him is freely given
The fire that flashed, and fell from heaven,
To make him strive as he has striven.