There lived a poet once, a famous bard, Whose muse, arrayed in robes of misty light,Soared high above the common herd of men. So high she soared, she almost passed from sight,Even as the cold and brilliant stars of Heaven That shine in chilly splendour from the skiesWithhold the radiance of their fairest beams Beyond the naked sight of human eyes.Still there are some pretentious ones who read The mystic dreams and fancies of his brain,Pedantic minds, who, understanding naught, Would still have others think they grasp the strain,Till, at some passage with strange meaning fraught, Too subtle far for them to understand,They pause perplexed, then as with one accord Cry out in chorus: "How sublime and grand!"O gifted bard! I would not try to pluck One leaf from out thy laurel wreath of fameBecause I fail to grasp thy subtle thought: 'Tis not in thee, but me, where lies the blame.Around his tomb the world has bowed in grief, And strewed his grave with bay and laurel leaf.
There lived and died a poet, years ago-- A hardy, humble ploughman of the soilWho sang his heartfelt songs in simplest words And earned his daily bread by humble toil.His songs brought gladness unto many hearts And soothed men's sorrows as with magic spell.His name was known in palace and in cot, For king and peasant loved the poet well.And why? Because he sang of human faith, Of human love, of human joy and pain,The grandest thoughts couched in the simplest words, The lowliest mind could grasp the meaning plain.O poet ploughmen! thine the laurel wreath, Whose songs found answer in the hearts of men,Thy name shall live on Fame's immortal scroll After his name has passed from mortal ken,Thine the true poet soul and master mind Whose lyrics touched the hearts of all mankind.
