The Soul Of A Poet

I have written, long years I have written,     For the sake of my people and right,     I was true when the iron had bitten     Deep into my soul in the night;     I wrote not for praise nor for money,     I craved but the soul and the pen,     And I felt not the sting in the honey     Of writing the kindness of men.     You read and you saw without seeing,     My work seemed a trifle apart,     While the truth of things thrilled through my being,     And the wrong of things murdered my heart!     Cast out, and despised and neglected,     And weak, and in fear, and in debt,     My songs, mutilated! rejected!     Shall ring through the Commonwealth yet!     And you to the pure and the guileless,     And the peace of your comfort and pride,     You have mocked at my bodily vileness,     You have tempted and cast me aside.     But wronged, and cast out, drink-sodden,     But shunned, and insane and unclean,     I have dared where few others have trodden,     I have seen what few others have seen.     I have seen your souls bare for a season!     I have heard as a deaf man can hear!     I have seen you deprived of your reason     And stricken with deadliest fear.     And when beautiful night hid the shocking     Black shame of the day that was past,     I felt the Great Universe rocking     With the truth that was coming at last.