The Poet

Until the poet hears Apollo’s
Call to the hallowed sacrifice,
The petty cares of life he follows,
And sunk in them his spirit lies.
His holy lyre remains unsounded;
His spirit sleeps in numbing rest,
By an unworthy world surrounded,
Himself perhaps unworthiest.

But once his ear, attentive, shakes
When the god-given word is stirring,
The poet’s soul, its pinions whirring,
Is like an eagle that awakes.
Then wearied of all worldly playing,
He shuns the babble of the crowd;
The people’s idol disobeying,
His haughty head remains unbowed.
He runs away, and wildly, proudly,
Comes full of riot, full of sound,
Where empty waters wash around
The shores and woods that echo loudly.