POETRY.
THE POET.
WITH hands that never tire, With heart that never pines,
• He tends the holy fire Of world-forsaken shrines, Alone within the night Of solitary places, Where once the leaping light Illumed the thronging faces With worship burning white.
Upon the stone he lays His hopes and joys and fears; He strews his flowering days; He strews his fruitful years; Yet, ever flickers low The flame, and falters dying, Till some tempestuous woe That shakes his heart with sighing Revives the sacred glow.
Though all he freely brings That he, in vigil-dreams May hear a voice that sings By far, eternal streams— Where darkling terror looms Beside the shadowed portal, His life, which fire consumes, For us with flame immortal Shall light the threshold glooms.
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON.
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