The Poet Priest

Not as of one whom multitudes admire,      I believe they call him great;     They throng to hear him with a strange desire;      They, silent, come and wait,      And wonder when he opens wide the gate     Of some strange, inner temple, where the fire     Is lit on many altars of many dreams --     They wait to catch the gleams --      And then they say,     In praiseful words: "'Tis beautiful and grand."      And so his way     Is strewn with many flowers, sweet and fair;                         And people say:     "How happy he must be to win and wear                         Praise ev'ry day!"     And all the while he stands far out the crowd,                         Strangely ~alone~.     Is it a Stole he wears? -- or mayhap a shroud --     No matter which, his spirit maketh moan;     And all the while a lonely, lonesome sense     Creeps thro' his days -- all fame's incense      Hath not the fragrance of his altar; and     He seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayer      Than lift his head aloft amid the Grand:     If all the world would kneel down at his feet                         And give acclaim --     He fain would say: "Oh! No! No! No!     The breath of fame is sweet -- but far more sweet      Is the breath of Him who lives within my heart;     God's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creep      Along the words of merely human art;     It cometh from some far-off hidden Deep,     Far-off and from so far away --     It filleth night and day."     Not as of one who ever, ever cares     For earthly praises, not as of such think thou of me,     And in the nights and days -- I'll meet with thee     In Prayers -- and thou shalt meet with me.